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owodi · 13 hours ago

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LADS x “Who did this to you?”

A/N: Hoooo boy my ADHD is pulling me in like 5 different directions fic-wise but this theme has been feeding the brain worms. All LIs included, but the ficlets are varying lengths (Sorry, Zayne girlies, his was the first I wrote so it was the shortest). Also, check the cw for each because although I’m not trying to ruin anyone’s day here, there is some angst, implied assault and violence. Also, no smut this time, for that, I’ll shamelessly plug my Caleb fic, Delicate Things. Enjoy :)

Read on AO3

wc: 11.6k total

❄️ZAYNE❄️

cw: angst, violence, hurt/comfort, main story/anecdote spoilers, implied Dawnbreaker

In the span of minutes, all of Zayne’s worst nightmares are coming true before his eyes.

You’ve been a regular at Akso Hospital for years, of course. Both for the sake of monitoring your Protocore Syndrome, and for many more on-the-job injuries than he would like.

But this time is different.

This time, you’re in a worse state than your physician/boyfriend has seen you in recent memory.

Zayne had felt the first pricks of dread when the Hunter Association’s evac transport called ahead for triage of a patient exactly matching your age and description, but when they wheel you in, blood-soaked and unconscious, the sensation is more akin to being hit by a bus.

Ever the professional, Zayne’s focus narrows only to saving your life. Transfusion, fluids, stitches. The slight shake of his hands—normally rock-steady—as he readies his sutures is the only thing that betrays his raging inner turmoil.

Once you’re out of the ICU, sleeping fitfully in a private room, only then does he allow himself a moment to break down. He holds one of your hands between both of his, head bowed as tears stream out and then freeze in crystalline patterns on his cheeks.

While he waits for you to awaken, he’s a walking phantom. He doesn’t sleep, doesn’t return home. It’s all Grayson can do to force him to eat a protein bar when they cross paths.

When you do wake up, say his name in a ragged voice and thank him for saving you, intense relief washes over him.

But what he didn’t expect was for your pained, tired smile to evoke such a burning, bitter fury along with it. See, that deep, jagged slash across your back, much too close to your spine for comfort, wasn’t inflicted by a Wanderer. After all his research and experience, Zayne can tell.

Human hands wrought this misery, and though the doctor has never thought himself a vengeful man, he wishes very much to know the culprit.

“Who did this to you?”

Zayne sees the way your brows shoot up and your jaw goes slack at his question. He figures you expected a lecture, a long-winded condemnation of your recklessness and a stern reminder that you nearly lost your life. But all of that can wait.

“I…” you swallow thickly, fidgeting with the edge of your blanket. “I’m not sure I’m at liberty to tell you, since it relates to my work with the Association.”

“Please. I have to know. For medical reasons,” In spite of his best efforts, Zayne can’t keep desperation from tinging his voice, or cold fury from sharpening his gaze. He doesn’t miss the way your eyes go wide—it’s almost unheard of for him to beg like this. For a moment, his insides twist with worry, wondering if his obvious ire, even if it isn’t directed at you, will cost him your trust. He tentatively takes your hand, thumb soothing your bruised knuckles. “If it eases your conscience, know that doctor-patient confidentiality still applies.”

“Not sure if that’s relevant,” you mutter. But either way, you decide to tell him everything. It was a lengthy deep-cover operation to infiltrate a crime syndicate with ties to Ever. Some double-agent or informant must have ratted you out, because instead of the supply drop-off you were meant to sabotage, you walked into a trap and got beat to hell for your trouble.

As he absorbs the details of your story, as well as any names and locations that you can remember, Zayne’s grip on your hand tightens. He lets out a long breath. “I understand. Thank you for being forthcoming about all this. My knowledge of this incident, beyond its impact on your health, won’t leave this room.” He stands up, ready to leave, but you grab his sleeve.

“Zayne, you’re not going to do anything stupid for my sake, right…?” You let the question hang in the air for a tense beat.

“No need to worry,” Zayne’s cool fingers brush your bangs aside, and he presses a kiss to your forehead. “I don’t have the time to hunt down an entire crime syndicate.”

You laugh, but Zayne doesn’t. It’s true, he doesn’t have room in his schedule for such a crusade. But what he neglects to tell you is that he intends to make some.

Your Zayne isn’t a killer. He is a protector of life, so dedicated to his work that he barely has time for himself and his own happiness. But the man in Zayne’s dreams blurring the line between realities, the notorious Dawnbreaker—he’s a different story entirely. That man never relishes killing poor souls who’ve lost their sanity, it’s merely a mercy. But who knows what will happen when he’s faced with men he’s sure deserve a painful death? Perhaps the bastards who laid hands on you will find out.

🐦‍⬛SYLUS🐦‍⬛

cw: violence, angst, kidnapping (not by Sylus), feral Sylus, vague myth spoilers, pre-relationship, MC is a tsundere and Sylus is into it

The leader of Onychinus has grown used to his imperfect, idiosyncratic little world.

Is it ideal? Not always—though it certainly beats being sealed in the Abyss or years of imprisonment in a space-time rift. There are moments of loneliness, even despair, but as he always professes, Sylus is good at adapting to life’s myriad obstacles and inconveniences. With his wits, willpower and vast wealth, there are few material threats, even in a place as chaotic as the N109 Zone. His composure is second to none. He is practiced in the art of the poker face, studied in smug grins and condescending little laughs. It’s usually enough, along with his imposing physique, to intimidate anyone into following orders, folding, whatever he needs at the time.

So, as far as Sylus is concerned, it isn’t really a big deal that for the past month, someone has been trying to kill him.

The first attempts were in public—or as public as Sylus was willing to venture. A fire erupted in his private box at the symphony. An explosion rocked the venue of an elite weapons auction. A briefcase at the site of a deal began spewing noxious gas. Most vexingly, men in dark helmets wielding top-notch firearms had given chase while he was on a joyride with a certain Hunter (who, by his observation, was just starting to warm up to him).

“How are you so damn calm?! This can’t be normal, even for you!” Your voice had leapt up in pitch in the heat of the moment, shrill and wobbly in his helmet’s comms. Still, as competent as ever, you’d pulled a glock from your thigh holster and shot with impressive accuracy, even as one arm clung to his waist for dear life.

Sylus hadn’t been able to help the rich laugh that rumbled in his chest as he weaved out of the enemy’s line of fire. “It isn’t normal, sweetie. Or, it wasn’t, until recently. But with you here, I like our odds.”

You’d scoffed, incredulous, but with your strengths combined, the two of you had made short work of the would-be assassins, barely even breaking a sweat.

Sylus had wanted so badly to observe your expression on the silent ride home. Was it etched with concern or disdain? He’d left a verbal crumb about his recent brushes with death to bait you, but he’d neglected to remember how the helmets and riding position would obscure your reaction. He’d mentally regrouped, tried to focus on your warm body pressed to his, but he couldn’t tell from your posture or your grip on him whether you’d been shaken by the idea of losing him, or if the prospect had rolled right off your back.

That all changed as soon as the two of you were safe in his garage. The second he cut the engine, you had thrown off your helmet and marched up to him, hands planted firmly on your hips. As always, you looked positively radiant when driven to the point of fury.

“What was that about ‘until recently’?” You demanded. “Sylus, has someone been making multiple attempts on your life?”

Sylus whistled, appreciative. “Always so observant, sweetie. The Association trained you well.”

You were not having any of his bullshit. Your nose scrunched and you moved in, as close to ‘up in his face’ as the height difference would allow. “Who? You’re the all-knowing big-shot of the N109 Zone, so isn’t it a piece of cake to find out and put a stop to it?”

“There are some leads, sure,” Sylus casually stepped past you before you could catch the growing smirk on his face and took off his gloves. He was confident he still sounded unbothered. “You know how it is. Having innumerable enemies isn’t new for me.”

You grabbed his arm and turned him to face you again, your expression grave. “Seriously? Shouldn’t dealing with this be top priority?”

Sylus sighed, resting a placating hand on your shoulder. “No need to worry, kitten. Obviously, they haven’t been successful. They’re rather uncreative, actually. And eventually, they’ll get frustrated enough with their failure that they’ll make a mistake. I’ll deal with them properly then.”

You scowled. “You’re way too cavalier about your own life. What happens if they get creative? If they don’t stop trying? I know you heal faster than most people, but you shouldn’t be so reckless—“

”Awww, sweetie. You really care what happens to me, don’t you?” Sylus cupped your cheek affectionately, only for your face to flush red as you shrugged him off.

”You’re ridiculous. Don’t bother haunting me if you end up dead.” With that, you’d tossed your hair and stalked away in a huff.

Sylus had watched you go, a pleased smile tugging at his lips. She cares about me, even in this lifetime.

He’s not smiling tonight.

Your parting comment is the last he’s heard from you in over two weeks. Not a call, text, or even a reply on ‘Moments’.

On its face, that isn’t necessarily unusual. Your contact with him, though it’s been growing steadily, is still rarer than he’d like. Plus, your job requires frequent excursions and undercover operations that leave you nearly unreachable.

What is unusual is that Mephisto has lost sight of your location. Sylus’ network of informants doesn’t have eyes on you, either. Funny how easily confidence can morph into sickening dread. Sylus thinks if you were here, you’d laugh at the absurdity of it.

But you’re not here, and that, he decides, is a problem. You left no word, no clues. And the assassination attempts have come to an abrupt, suspicious end. It’s to the point where Sylus is almost sure you’ve stuck your nose somewhere you shouldn’t have, and worse, you’ve done so for his sake.

He wishes you had confided in him first. He knows you’re a proud person, it wouldn’t be in-character for you to admit that you were worried enough to investigate his would-be killers on your own. Still, Sylus would like to think that at this point, if you were seriously in danger, you’d call for him.

Maybe it’s wishful delusion.

He’s sitting at his desk, going slowly insane as he polishes his new rifle for the umpteenth time when he gets a call from an unknown number. Something like doom or dark foreboding seeps further into his skin with every ring, and his chest constricts as he hits ‘accept’.

”Speak,” Sylus’ voice sounds undaunted as always, his unease masterfully hidden. For a moment, there’s only faint static on the other end. Then, a sudden, dull thud.

”Ugh,” a familiar groan meets Sylus’ ears, followed by some ragged, labored breaths. Sylus’s stomach plummets, his posture stiffening and thoughts racing, planning the next four moves.

“Kitten,” his voice remains deadly calm. “You know better than to contact me from an outside line. My poor nerves can’t take the strain. Where are you?”

Of course, having gestured to Luke and Kieran as soon as he heard your voice, Sylus is already halfway to finding out where you are. The twins are diligently decrypting the signal and pinpointing its origin.

Once again, there’s no immediate answer to Sylus’ question, only some gruff background mumbling, what sounds like a chair scraping against a concrete floor, followed by another muffled cry from you.

Sylus is used to rage. Feeling it, measuring it, mastering it. But it’s a real struggle for him to keep a level head while hearing your pained voice. It makes him burn, sharpens his killing intent more than anything else in this world—surpassing every unkept promise, every claymore to the chest.

”Kitten,” he seethes, his tone like silk-wrapped steel. “Tell me who did this to you.”

There’s a tense beat. Yet more silence.

”Answer, already. Tell him what we discussed,” a frustrated male voice snaps, and then Sylus hears the distinct sound of you spitting, presumably in your captor’s face. “Bitch!” The man roars, and there’s a ringing slap that makes Sylus’ jaw clench and his vision flash white-hot.

Then, gods help him, he hears you laugh. Airy and melodic and a note unhinged. In spite of everything, it brings him a modicum of relief. That’s exactly what he’d expect of the woman he cherishes.

”Don’t you dare come here, Sy!” You yell, still giggling, delirious. “These assholes want me to lure you here so they can blow you up or whatever. But I’ll be fine. You were right, they kinda suck at this—”

“That’s enough…!” There’s another violent crash, a male scream, a prolonged scuffle, and finally, the sounds of duct tape being unrolled.

It’s a long time before someone speaks again.

“How do you like our invitation, Sylus?” a raspy voice pants on the other end of the line, trying for intimidation and falling tragically short.

”Miss Hunter is charming as always,” Sylus says, and he means it.

The raspy-voiced man seems to sneer. “Your little pet has been a pain in the ass these past few weeks, but we finally caught her by the tail. Will you come to her rescue, or should we just slit her throat? Maybe take one of her limbs and put her out of commission? Or something smaller? Doubt she’d miss a toe.”

”Touch her again,” Sylus growls, “and there won’t be anything left of you to bury.”

He cuts off the call and heads straight for a sleek black SUV that’s armed to the gills. “Coordinates?” He calls over his shoulder.

“Already ahead of you, Boss!” Kieran responds, tossing Sylus the keys as he follows right at his heels. Mephisto gives a hearty “caw”, soaring overhead.

“I ran the guy’s voice through our recognition software,” Luke adds, only a pace behind. “It’s as we suspected, those bastards at the Hemlocke Syndicate have forgotten their place. They’re definitely behind the other incidents, too.”

“Good work,” Sylus’ words are punctuated by the slam of car doors and the metallic snap of loaded magazines. “Let’s repay them tenfold for their foolishness.”

“Don’t worry, Boss, we’ll definitely rescue Boss Lady,” Kieran pipes.

Luke laughs. “If she even needs our help. That girl’s always turning Wanderers into Swiss cheese. When we first brought her in, she had so many knives on her I knew she and the Boss were a match made in Hell.“

Sylus doesn’t even acknowledge the twins’ attempts to lighten the mood. He just steps on the gas, too focused on rocketing toward the blinking coordinate that represents you.

As they reach the outskirts of the city, the surroundings get progressively more barren and dilapidated. The Hemlocke Syndicate has holed up in what used to be a vibrant underground shopping complex. Now, it’s mostly rubble.

It’s Mephisto who spots the sentries first, heavily armed and perched on a high concrete roof. He lets out a squawk in warning, and Sylus snaps to Kieran, “Take the wheel.”

In a swirl of twisting shadows and crimson energy, Sylus leaps from the car and appears behind the nearest guard. There’s an echoing clatter as his gun hits the roof, and even before the man can scream, he seems to dissolve into a fine mist. Alerted to his presence, the other guards attempt to fire, but Sylus is a blur of shadows and fists as he eliminates them one by one. He seizes the last guard with his Evol, dangles him over the edge of the building and drawls, “Where is she?”

The guard’s eyes blow wide. He’s trembling, nearly hyperventilating as his gaze flicks from Sylus to the ground below and back again. He gulps. “Th-The sub-basement, innermost room. I-It used to be a movie theater.”

“Much obliged,” Sylus sets him back on the roof. He knocks the guard out instead of killing him, and calls to Luke and Kieran as alarms start to blare. “Finish up here, Mephisto and I are going ahead. I want this eyesore wiped off the map in the next ten minutes.”

”Got it, Boss!”

Sylus barrels his way past repurposed husks of chain stores and half-melted mascots, through labyrinthine halls and hasty barricades, dispatching anyone unfortunate enough to get in his way. When he reaches the abandoned theater, he presses an ear to the double doors. All he can hear is the faint sound of a corny film score coming from inside.

When he eases the door open, he’s at the corner of the last row. The lights are dim, save for the glow of a famous black-and-white movie playing on-screen. In the current scene, a beautiful damsel is being tied to some train tracks by a nefarious mobster. Her cries are heightened, silly, but they set Sylus on-edge.

At the very front of the room, a large shadow is cast over the center of the screen by a middle-aged man in a burgundy suit, holding you upright as he presses a gun to your temple. Your mouth, hands and ankles are taped up, but your eyes are alert. When they lock onto Sylus’, they widen slightly. Sylus gives you a tiny smirk, his gaze briefly rising to the theater’s darkened eaves before it falls back to you.

“A bit on the nose, isn’t this?” Sylus mocks. He makes his way down the stairs, inching forward row by row. In the better lighting, he can make out the weathered face of Dorian Hemlocke: his former collaborator and current leader of the Syndicate. “Also, it seems defeatist to cast yourself as the bumbling villain, Dorian. Don’t you know they never win in these kinds of stories?”

”You made it, Sylus,” Dorian almost purrs, unfazed. “It’s been awhile since the leader of Onychinus slithered out of his den. I’m honored.”

Sylus lifts his chin along with his gun. “Your platitudes are unnecessary. Unhand her and I’ll make this a quick death.”

”Now, why would I do that? Seems like she’s my greatest advantage at the moment.” The man tightens his grip on you, and you thrash in his hold to no avail.

”Self-preservation,” Sylus warns, energy roiling and curling around his form as he steps closer.

”Ah, ah. Stay back.” The man smiles. “Wouldn’t want my finger to slip.”

Sylus huffs, but he does stop. “What is it you want?”

“To topple your reign over the N109 Zone, naturally.” Dorian jerks his head toward the gun in Sylus’ hand. “So, kindly use that to take your own life. If you do, I’ll let her go before your corpse cools. And if you don’t have the guts,” he cocks the gun. “I’ll spill hers.”

Sylus lets out a sigh. “You really are uncreative, old man.” He slowly, deliberately raises his gun, resting the barrel solidly against his own chest. In Hemlocke’s grip, you bristle and squirm, your protests muffled by the tape over your mouth. “I’m sorry it came to this, sweetie.” Sylus’ expression softens. “Close your eyes for me. It’ll be over in no time.”

Your muffled screams only get louder. Your eyes are brimming with tears, and the sight is cracking Sylus’ heart in two. “Quiet, girl!” Dorian snaps.

”I have your word you’ll let her go?” Sylus eyes Hemlocke one last time.

“Yes, now get on with it!”

”Heh. Fine, then. Eyes closed, now.” Finally, you stop moving, eyelids fluttering shut. The air is thick and heavy. Time seems to slow to a crawl. “Good girl. Three, two—”

Bang!

”Mmmph!”

”Caw!”

Three things happen simultaneously: You slam your head into your captor’s chin, Sylus fires two bullets into the man’s chest, and Mephisto swoops down from the rafters, quick as a whisper, and knocks the gun away from your head, raking his claws across Dorian Hemlocke’s face for good measure. The ‘fearsome’ leader of the syndicate crumples like wet paper, and before you can hit the ground, Sylus catches you in his arms.

”Nice coordination, kitten. My offer to join Onychinus still stands.” Your eye-roll turns into a wince as he gingerly peels away the tape that binds you. The angry red marks left behind on your skin, the blooming bruises, they all stir his fury anew, but he keeps his vengeful thoughts to himself.

You don’t seem to notice the state he’s in as you lean forward to scold him. “What was with all that posturing, Sylus? You’re lucky I understood your signal. Your little charade would have been traumatizing otherwise.”

“But you did understand. I knew you would.” Sylus can’t help himself. He pulls you close to his chest, half-expecting you to shove him off. When you don’t, when you shiver and lean into his touch instead, he takes a deep, grounding breath. One arm holds you steady, and his free hand rises to stroke your hair. He can feel how fast your heart is racing—or is that his? When he speaks, it’s all bass and warmth in your ear. “You risked your life on my behalf. Thank you.”

Sylus watches surprise cloud your pretty features. Then, embarrassment. Your lips quiver, and you glance away. “I wasn’t all that worried.”

“Really?” Sylus teases, tilting your chin so his gaze meets yours. ”Those tears could have fooled me.”

Whatever retort you may have planned is drowned out by a low rumbling. The ground begins to tremble, and Sylus doesn’t waste any time lifting you into his arms again. His Evol hums, encircling the two of you like a crimson cloak. “Time’s up.”

“Luke and Kieran?”

“They were worried about you,” he grins. “And so was I.”

It’s all a blur. The rush of air and ringing sound, the acrid sting of smoke in his nostrils. He feels you curling into him, clinging, and it’s as if a void in his chest is suddenly filled. Everything is crumbling, but he is content. He knows exactly where to go. His wings unfurl, and soon he’s breathing fresh air, cradling you high above the burning wreckage.

“You can open you eyes if you want to, sweetie.” He tells you, so gentle.

But when you do, you don’t look toward the ground. You look him dead in the eyes. Your small smile has him hopelessly smitten. Melting. “Thank you for coming, Sylus. You saved me.”

No, he corrects you silently. It’s the other way around.

✨XAVIER✨

cw: violence, angst, hurt/comfort, blood, feral Xavier, main story/anecdote spoilers

Xavier hasn’t been able to calm down since your coordinates disappeared from the map on his Hunter’s watch. There was a short, brusque call with dispatch confirming it wasn’t a glitch, and since then, he’s been frantically zipping around the No-Hunt Zone where you went missing, slaying anything unfortunate enough to cross his path. At first, he thinks maybe you got trapped in an abnormal protofield. But the metaflux, though it’s intense as always in such a Wanderer-dense area, isn’t as strange as it had been during those previous incidents.

Wracking his brain, Xavier considers scenario after grisly scenario at lightspeed. Maybe your watch got smashed, and your skull along with it. Maybe you fell from a high cliff. Maybe your heart gave out and you’re lost to him once again. Maybe…

Suddenly, Xavier catches movement in his peripherals. The familiar black and white of a Hunter’s uniform, splattered with crimson. His heart plummets. He’s at your side in an instant, just in time to catch you as your knees buckle.

“Hey!” Xavier’s cry sounds foreign to his own ears, quivering and broken. He calls your name, cradling you ever-so-gently against his chest. You’ve been gagged and your wrists are bound painfully behind your back. Xavier makes quick work of the restraints with his lightblade, nearly growling at the sight of your skin rubbed raw. When he unties your gag, you cough weakly, lashes fluttering. There’s an angry bruise on your cheekbone, a bleeding slash above your eyebrow.

“Xav…ier?” you rasp. “How… are you here?”

Xavier’s lip quivers, barely resisting the urge to crush you against him in a hug. “Later, okay? You’re safe now. More importantly, who did this to you?”

By now, it’s obvious this wasn’t a Wanderer attack. You were tied up, clearly manhandled. There’s a muddy boot-print on your stomach. The sight of it makes Xavier’s blood run searing hot in his veins. When you don’t immediately answer, his eyes bore into yours. “Who?” He repeats, his tone lower and edged with fury.

Your teeth worry your bottom lip as your eyes fall to the forest floor. “I… think they must work for Ever.”

Xavier goes rigid. “Were they still following you when you escaped?”

“They probably tried,” you answer, smirking in spite of the pain. “They didn’t tie my feet, so I got some solid kicks in before I ran off.”

Xavier ruffles your hair. “That’s my strong, brave girl. Let’s get you out of—”

Suddenly, you hear the sound of branches snapping nearby. Xavier draws his weapon, shielding your body with his own as three hulking figures come into view.

“There you are,” one of them sneers as best he can while clutching his broken nose.

“We told you running was useless,” the second guy spits. He sports a limp and a crudely-bandaged hand.

“Ohhhh, when Dr. Lucius gets ahold of you, bitch—” the third henchman doesn’t get to finish his thought before Xavier launches himself at him and pins him down, one boot pressing against the man’s throat.

“What was that? Don’t think I heard you,” Xavier’s tone remains even as he grinds his heel and the man lets out a gurgling wheeze. “You said Dr. Lucius? Whoever that is, you’ll have to send him my regards since I can’t make it in-person. Yet.” With a loud crack, Xavier smacks the man’s temple with the butt of his sword, knocking him unconscious in an instant.

The man with the bloody nose roars and charges in an attempt to avenge his companion, but he’s too slow. You’ve always thought of your partner’s fighting style as poised and refined, not a motion wasted. But today, it’s as raw and dirty as a street brawl. For the moment, he’s discarded his blade entirely—is it out of mercy? Well… probably not. He ducks under a wide swing, lands a solid strike to the man’s solar plexus before using his opponent’s momentum to flip him over his shoulder and slam him violently to the ground.

While Xavier is distracted, the third henchman tries to take the opportunity to close in on your prone form, but Xavier is quick to intercept. In a flash of light, he teleports behind your would-be assailant and kicks his knees out from under him. He brings his foot down first on the man’s injured hand, then hard on his sternum, wrenching yowls of agony from his throat. When Xavier withdraws, the boot-print left on the man’s midsection mirrors the one you received. His lips twitch slightly upward, but he’s not nearly satisfied.

“Which one of you was it?” he seethes, landing another kick to the man’s groin. “Who’s responsible for the bruise on her cheek?”

“She, uh, fell?”

That’s the wrong answer. Xavier moves from his current target to the man who just spoke. The man who just lied. He captures a meaty arm in a painful lock, bending his elbow the wrong direction. “No one wants to confess? How about telling me what rat-hole you crawled out of and where I can find Dr. Lucius?”

Silence.

“Disappointing,” Xavier tuts. Broken Nose’s eyes well with tears as he hisses through gritted teeth. Any more pressure and his elbow joint will snap.

“Look, we’re just mercenaries! We just do as we’re told.”

“Yeah! We don’t know anything—”

“Hm. I see.” At this admission, Xavier produces a tiny needle from his uniform and, with something similar to the tranquilizer he offered you before your trip to the Nest, knocks them out in quick succession. He leaves them in a heap, then hurries back to your side.

“I’m sorry you had to be there for that. I’m sorry I didn’t find you sooner, I… this shouldn’t have happened.” His voice has returned to the soft, kind Xavier you know and love. His azure eyes, once stormy and brimming with hatred, now fall upon you with anxiety and regret.

“Don’t be sorry,” you reach for his sleeve. “You found me. I’m okay now. Thank you.”

Xavier lets out a long breath. He leans his forehead against yours, your noses brushing. His long lashes keep shining tears at bay. “If Ever had taken you—”

“But they didn’t.”

“If I’d lost you—”

“You didn’t,” you soothe, kissing his furrowed brow and his eyelids in turn. Xavier looks the slightest bit more relaxed.

“We’re going straight to Akso. Hang on tight.” Light begins to swirl around the two of you, and you lean your head on his chest.

“Of course. But, did you call for backup to collect those guys?”

Xavier huffs, not sparing them a glance. “I did. But we’ll see who gets them first—the Hunters or the Wanderers.”

🐠RAFAYEL🐠

cw: violence, angst, hurt/comfort, implied attempted assault, roofie, drowning (mentioned), sea god Raf, he kills people

Rafayel may seem brash, reckless, even. But in truth, he knows how to play the long game.

Art, love, revenge. All three are things he considers worth the wait.

The night begins like so many other boring gallery openings. Thomas had insisted upon a masquerade event as a gimmick, “Rich people love a theme! And an excuse to get all dressed up!” He’d crowed, evidently very proud of the idea.

But to Rafayel, whether he forces polite conversation and fields obtuse questions with a mask on or without is of little consequence. He’ll be subjected to the evening’s drudgeries either way. So, he begrudgingly heeds Thomas’ plea to seem ’mysteriously aloof’ instead of bored, giving his champagne a listless swirl as he surveys the sea of masked patrons. Even in their glittering finery, something about them strikes the artist as profoundly dull.

That is, until he senses you among them.

He can feel the shift in the air, catch the scent of your perfume even before he lays eyes on your figure in the distance. You’re radiant, a splash of technicolor contrasting shades of grey. A vision draped in rich blue silk that shimmers in the gallery lighting, flowing like a playful tide with each graceful motion. Rafayel’s hand unconsciously rises to his heart, trying to calm its erratic fluttering. As always, his senses conspire against him at every turn when it comes to you. The euphoria you evoke in him verges on pain. His yearning is deep and old as the ocean itself.

She’s here. My bride.

A grin tugs at the corner of Rafayel’s lips. It really is a pleasant surprise. You’d flat-out refused to come tonight when he’d asked. And no amount of teasing, whining or cajoling had moved you. When pressed for a reason, you’d simply said that you “had other plans”.

That had certainly left him sulking, but now, his hurt feelings are nowhere to be found. When the two of you make eye-contact from across the room, he notes the millisecond of mischief in your gaze, followed by a cheeky, secretive wink. You incline your head ever-so-slightly to the group of suit-clad men in your midst—high-ranking members of The Journeymen, a club rumored to be involved in illegal art dealings, protocore theft, and much worse. You deliberately adjust the bracelet at your wrist, and it’s all the confirmation he needs to know your presence is the Association’s doing. Rafayel internally thanks Captain Jenna for livening up his night.

Your covert communication and subtle moves scream ‘don’t interfere’, so Rafayel does his best to honor your wishes. But he does keep an eye on you as the night wears on—never close enough to arouse suspicion from your targets, but never so far as to lose sight of you. From what he can see, you seem to be holding yourself quite well, socializing and putting on a ditzy front to lower their guard.

Rafayel has to hand it to you, you put on a great show.

He only turns away once, having been pulled away by Thomas to chat with some influential buyers. Every excruciating second you’re out of view intensifies the annoyance brewing in his chest. Rafayel knows you’re a pro, you can hold your own in most situations. Still, his mind can’t stop fixating on the scenarios where you couldn’t, on the possibility of losing you again. His unease is punctuated by the shattering of glass and the acrid scent of blood.

Rafayel immediately snaps to attention. Drink forgotten, he hurriedly parts the throngs of wide-eyed patrons to make his way to you.

When he gets closer, a chill creeps up his spine. Your champagne flute is in pieces, scattered across the marble floor. The biggest one is clutched in your shaking hand, blood is dripping from a slash in your palm, and whether from pain or frustration, your eyes are brimming with tears. Crouched down and breathing shallowly, you look poised to gather the rest of the shards, but one of your targets stops you. Quite a bit older than you, the smarmy man, Edgar Mondreau, loosens your grip on the glass shard, pulls you upright by the wrist and casually lays his other hand on the small of your back. His tone is thick with condescension as he leans in to whisper in your ear.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, let the staff handle it. I’ll get you another drink.”

How dare that bastard manhandle you. Rafayel could kill him on the spot. The only reason he doesn’t is because he’d never hear the end of it if he compromised your mission. Still, his jaw is set as he watches how your muscles tense at the contact. He observes the sheen of sweat on your brow, the deep flush in your cheeks under the intricate mask you wear.

“That’s kind of you, but I shouldn’t.” Speech somewhat slurred, you seem drunk—only Rafayel is sure you haven’t had a drop of alcohol. You take an unsteady step away, only for the creep to seize both of your shoulders. You flinch. Fire flickers at Rafayel’s fingertips. As good an actress as you are, he can tell the difference between your charming little charade and genuine distress.

Unable to bear it any longer, he’s next to you in an instant, sunset eyes probing your hazy ones. He separates you from your unwanted companion, using his body to block you from your target’s reach. Letting you lean against his chest, he keeps you steady with one hand, and uses the free one to loosen his collar and wrap his silk scarf around your bloodied palm.

“Hey, what are you–?” The man looks indignant, but Rafayel just checks his impromptu bandaging, all business.

“Pardon me, Mr. Mondreau. This woman looks like she might faint. I’ll take her to the garden for some fresh air.”

“M-Mr. Rafayel, there’s no need for that, she’s just had too much to drink.” The man tries to push in closer, and it takes all of Rafayel’s restraint not to shove him into the champagne tower. Mondreau insists, “She came here with me. If she’s sick, I can take her home.”

Something churns inside him, then, some titanic emotion that feels too vast and consuming to chalk up to “anger” or “jealousy”. For a brief moment, the temperature in the room drops, the champagne goes flat, and the display lights flicker ominously—an ill omen.

When the light returns, a brittle smile is plastered on Rafayel’s face. It doesn’t reach his eyes, but he forces himself to keep his tone light. “She’s bleeding, and practically falling over. What kind of host would I be if I callously ignored her? Magnanimous as I am, my guests are of the utmost importance to me. Understand?”

For a moment, no one moves. The silence between the two men is loaded, heavy. Rafayel wonders if Mondreau will protest, pick a fight. But ultimately, he just scowls, making a small ‘tsk’ as he turns on his heel and stalks away.

“Now, everyone,” Rafayel addresses the concerned crowd at large with a penitent bow of his head. “I do apologize, but tonight’s festivities will have to wrap up a bit early. I know, it's disappointing. But they say time heals all wounds. Good night.”

With that, Rafayel winks and sweeps you into a bridal carry, ignoring the shocked murmurs that follow his path out of the hall and Thomas’ bewildered expression as he clears his throat and starts to awkwardly shepherd the attendees toward the exit. His focus is only on you.

Once you reach the garden, Rafayel gingerly sets you down on a bench next to a delicately sculpted stone fountain, kneeling in front of you to get a good look at your face.

“Cutie,” he whispers, lightly cupping your cheek. Your skin is burning hot, and your eyes still won’t focus on his. “Are you okay?”

“Raf,” You blink too slowly, your reaction delayed and your movements sluggish as you try to fan yourself. “It’s… too hot,” you complain. “And I feel really weird.”

“What happened? Did you grab someone else’s cocktail by mistake?”

You shake your head.

“And you watched your drinks being poured, never set them down unattended?”

“No! M’not a baby,” you pout. But then, realization dawns. You wince. “Shit… once… I was grabbin’ the data stick off of Clarke. Had to do it while Shin was flirting with his ex-wife. Handed my drink to…”

You trail off, eyelids drooping. Rafayel’s gaze sharpens as he gently tilts up your chin. “Who? Who did this to you?”

“Mon…dreau…”

You slump forward into Rafayel’s embrace and he holds you tightly, securely. There can be no doubt that your drink was spiked.

A potent cocktail of fury and self-loathing roils in Rafayel’s gut. He should have stopped this. He should never have left your vicinity. He should never have let Thomas invite these reprobates to his gallery opening. They’ll have to have a serious conversation about this, it was really–

“Shit,” Rafayel bites out. Then, he lets out a string of muttered curses in Lemurian. But that’s enough for now. He’ll have to contain his emotions for the moment.

Instead, he focuses on getting you back home safely. He helps you change, removes your makeup, and tucks you into bed. Watching your sleeping face stirs his guilt again, and he entwines his fingers with yours. He stays by your side the whole night, never letting go.

“I was careless,” you groan, pressing an ice pack against your pounding forehead. “Sorry I ruined your event.”

“No,” Rafayel counters. “I was careless.”

“Please, it’s not your fault. It was my mission–”

“I wasn’t there when you needed me,” he insists, too quiet and grave for your liking. “You were doing great, but you were outnumbered. Also, for the record, there was nothing to ruin, cutie. You only ever brighten any place you walk into.”

“Geez, Raf,” You blush at that, hiding your face in your pillow. Adorable.

“What will the Association do with those bottom-feeders now? Prison? I hope it’s prison.”

You chuckle at Rafayel’s attempt to lighten the mood, but you shake your head. “They have ties to the police—to the Fleet, even. I secured the data we needed to build a case, but an all-out assault is a no-go. It could be months before we bring them in.”

“Seriously?”

“Mhm.” Rafayel’s scowl is so overblown that you can’t help but laugh. You reach out to caress his cheek, planting a featherlight kiss on his forehead. “Thanks for being mad on my behalf, fishie. But you don’t have to worry. All I need you to do is stay by my side. Please?”

“No fair. How could I say ‘no’ to that?” Rafayel leans into your touch, letting your warmth seep into his skin. He grabs your hand and kisses your knuckles, your wrist, reverent. He’s not lying to you, he’ll stay for as long as you need.

But as for those bastards… this will not do.

Once you’ve curled back into the blankets to sleep away the afternoon, Rafayel silently pads out of the room, retreating to your balcony. He pulls his phone from his pocket, and Talia’s name fills the screen.

“Rafayel! How are you, dear?” His aunt’s voice is as clear and melodic as ever.

“Not great, Auntie,” he heaves a sigh. “Miss Bodyguard got herself tangled up with some disgusting scum. And I… I couldn’t protect her, even though she was right under my nose.”

“Who?” Talia’s voice takes on a sharp edge. “What do you need?”

“It might be a lot to ask, but I was thinking…” Rafayel stares at the midday sky–too clear for his current mood. There’s a finality to his words. “A farewell concert.”

A week later, Rafayel is in his Lemurian form, circling the ugliest super-yacht he’s ever seen. And that’s saying something.

The paint job is a glossy, putrid green, somewhere between swampwater and bile. It’s trimmed in an obnoxious amount of gold swirls, not so much artfully placed as clumsily slapped on by an amateur. Her name, Journey Seeker, is scrawled in barely-legible script. And the sails—three of them, too tall to be practical, definitely compensating for something—are each carved with the likeness of a founding member of the Journeymen. Every tacky, narcissistic detail is enough to make Rafayel’s stomach turn.

He can’t wait to let the ocean claim it.

The sun is just beginning to dip below the horizon when he summons stormclouds to cover its streaks of pink and gold with a foreboding gray-green. The waves begin to churn, a restless prelude to violence. Rafayel takes in deep lungfuls of petrichor and sea-brine, feeling his once-dormant power spark, catch and ignite in his chest. It roars in his ears. It sears through his bloodstream from head to tail. His eyes and scales begin to glow, casting a faint blue light into the swirling void below. It has been some time since he let this strength surface, and on most occasions, he wouldn’t risk losing himself to instinct or cruel fate. But this involves his bodyguard, his muse, his beloved bride.

If there is one person this power is meant to protect and avenge, it’s you.

He expects a fight against primal urges, or at least some resistance. But instead, the Sea God’s will is almost too aligned with his. Rather than disdain, he feels anticipation– pleasure. This all-consuming wrath, the desire to draw blood, to plunder, to kill... It makes his bones ache and his muscles burn with want. He’s underwater, but he can barely breathe, his senses are heightened, honed in on the deck and the distant figures wriggling atop it like parasites.

The plan is in motion. The yacht’s crew have been replaced with Lemurians. Talia is currently wowing the Journeymen with an exclusive performance, lowering their guard and gathering them all on the deck. All he has to do is wait for her signal to begin the assault in earnest. But she’s taking too long.

Rafayel craves justice. He longs to unleash his wrath upon those who wronged you.

Right as his last thread of restraint is fraying, a bright red flare streaks through the swollen clouds, trailing white smoke that signals the Journeymen’s doom. He catches sight of Talia and the crew members diving into the ocean, toward safety. And that’s all he needs.

With a jagged flash of lightning, the rain begins to pour in icy torrents, percussive against the frothing sea. The wind screams, and in a tornadic surge of saltwater, Rafayel rockets above the deck, looming over his enemies from on high. Thunder shakes the masts, and, as if conducting a deadly symphony, he sweeps his trident in arc after wide arc. The waves heed him, rising impossibly high before slamming the hull with incredible force. The ship groans in protest, rocking dangerously back and forth. The suit-clad Journeymen’s screams are muffled by the rain and thunder, but they’re crystal-clear to Rafayel. He savors each one.

The men all look like drowned rats, scrambling to cling to the sails, the masts, anything. But Rafayel is relentless, battering the ship from all sides. He sends a lightning bolt directly at each sail, and one by one, the images of Clarke, Shin and Mondreau burst into flames, spurred on even in the downpour with the help of his Evol.

It isn’t long before the boat can’t stay upright, and with the help of another terrible wave, it crashes into the surf in slow motion. Some of the men, in a frantic survival attempt, leap over the edge into the freezing ocean. Most are sucked under the ship as it rapidly takes on more and more water.

Rafayel calls his shark friends to deal with the stragglers, but there’s one person he wants to deal with personally. Scanning the churning seascape, his eyes eventually lock onto him: Edgar Mondreau, clinging to a piece of a broken sail.

“You,” he rumbles, deep and dark as the sea-floor. He descends upon the trembling man, unearthly blue stare boring into Mondreau’s soul. “There you are.”

“W-What–? Who…?” Mondreau’s eyes are wide, disbelieving. They dart from Rafayel’s tail to his trident, then, finally, to his face. “Rafa…yel?”

A feral grin spreads over Rafayel’s lips as he lets electricity crackle between his clawed fingers. “That’s right. Are you shocked?”

Mondreau is rendered speechless. He tries, in vain, to paddle backward, but he loses his grip on the sail. Before he can sink, Rafayel grabs him by the tie and yanks him to eye-level. Mondreau coughs and wheezes, sniveling. “Wh-Why are you doing this? What did we ever do to you?”

“You don’t remember?” Rafayel tightens his grip. “Not even how… impolite you were to that woman at my gallery?”

Mondreau doesn’t seem to make the connection at first, but then, it clicks. “H-Her? That’s it?! I’m sorry. Really, I am. If you let me live I’ll give you riches, influence, any woman you want. Anything!”

For a tense moment, neither of them speaks. Rafayel tilts his head, like he might consider it. Then, he sneers.

“No.”

He stabs Mondreau through the heart with his trident. Once, twice.

“Aaaagh!”

“Foolish human,” Rafayel growls. “As if there’s anything you could give that would make up for your heresy. The price for hurting my bride is death.”

With those words, he lets the man's lifeless form plummet into the depths of the sea.

The next day, an anonymous tip as to the location of the Journeymen’s hideout, rumored to contain their stash of illegal protocores, is left at the Hunter Association. Shortly after, the news reports the shocking news of the sunken yacht and its casualties. You are flabbergasted, but Rafayel simply arches a brow, sipping his tea in silence.

🍎CALEB🍎

cw: violence, blood, angst, hurt/comfort, yandere/vengeful Caleb, DAA era (pre-explosion), implied (attempted) assault, main story/anecdote spoilers, Caleb beats up the perpetrator, also he tortures the guy with his Evol for a bit

In his first year at the DAA, amidst grueling bootcamps, flight training and academic rigor, Caleb finds solace in his visits home.

There are many reasons—old friends, familiar locales, Gran spoiling him with her cooking—but the foremost reason has been, and always will be, you.

Caleb keeps up a cheery front as always, but he can’t pretend the distance hasn’t been hard. You text most days, call when your schedules allow. But since it’s your last year of high school and his first at the academy, both of you are crazy busy. He’s got plenty to keep him distracted, but the yawning void in Caleb’s gut is never quite full unless you’re nearby: laughing, bantering, bossing him around.

One of his favorite parts of these home visits is reuniting with you at the train station. The way your eyes light up at the sight of him as he steps onto the platform makes him giddy. You always rush to meet him with a grin, only to stop short of an embrace and school your features into a more neutral expression, trying to look like an overly-excited kid and more like a grown-up. He finds it adorable. Like everything else you do. Caleb loves nothing more in these moments than to ruffle your hair and crush you against his chest so tight, feeling the awkwardness melt away as you return his hug.

Only this time, you aren’t there to greet him. Instead, he gets an apologetic text explaining that you’ll see him later because you have a ‘scheduling conflict’. Caleb hates the sound of that. So vague, so… distant. He tries to pry a bit more, sending some wide-eyed apple stickers and playful questions. But you leave him on read.

Suspicious, he thinks, unable to untangle the knot in the pit of his stomach.

Still, he’s nothing if not patient. Caleb shops for your favorite foods to stock the fridge, meets up with Gran to walk her home from chair yoga. By the time the two of them arrive back at the house, the sun is setting, but you’re still not back home.

“Geez, it’s getting late. D’y’know where she ran off to?” Caleb asks over the soft sizzle of the beef fried rice he’s tossing in the wok. “If she isn’t back soon, dinner’ll get cold.”

Gran takes a sip of her tea and waves off his concern. “She might still be awhile. She’s on a date.”

A date.

Caleb nearly burns himself on the pan. That’s what you meant by ‘scheduling conflict’? He tries to compose himself before responding. “Wooow, really? She didn’t even mention it to me.”

“Well, you know,” Gran muses, “she’s never been one for romance, and she’s at that age where having a crush can be embarrassing. I’m sure she’s just shy.”

Actually, ‘not one for romance’ isn’t quite right, and Caleb knows it. You haven’t brought up many boys to him—it’s a touchy subject for you two—but that’s not for lack of admirers, and he knows you’ve had at least some passing interest in your schoolmates over the years. Thing is, Caleb has made sure that none of those pesky flies buzz around you for long. Some have been more persistent than others, but in the end, Caleb takes pride in the fact that he hasn’t let any assholes slip through the cracks and break your heart. Or, he used to. But, now that he’s away, leave it to Gran to encourage you to go out with some punk kid.

Caleb bites back a string of profanities and just gives Gran a noncommittal ‘hmm’. He’s about to send you a message to check in, just in case, when he hears the lock chime as you burst through the front door, letting it slam behind you.

“Ah, welcome back, honey,” Gran calls.

Caleb hears you shuffling as you kick off your shoes, but instead of coming into the kitchen to greet the two of them, you keep your head down and hurry straight to your room.

“Hey, pip-squeak, you hungry—?”

“No, I’m tired,” you mutter, your bad mood punctuated by yet another slam.

Caleb and Gran share a look. He turns off the stove and instead fills the electric kettle with water for tea. The few minutes it takes to steep feel like an eternity, but once the drink is steaming and honeyed, Caleb carries it into the hallway, keeping his motions quiet as he presses an ear against your door. It’s faint, the sound muffled against your pillow, but Caleb swears he can hear you sobbing. His brows pinch with worry, and he knocks three times. “Pips, you okay in there? I brought chamomile.”

The crying stops. A quiet, shaky inhale. “I’m fine. Go away.”

If you’re trying to deter him, answering in such a raw, rough voice isn’t the way to do it. Caleb would normally give you more time to calm down, but under these circumstances, his anxiety and protective instincts win out. He pushes the door open, only to find you clutching your pillow for dear life, face puffy and red from crying. He sucks in a breath. “You—"

“What part of ‘go away’ was hard to understand?” you snap, but to his ears, your attempt at anger only sounds like the bleating of a wounded lamb.

“If you really want me to leave, I will. I’ll set this here.” Caleb puts down the mug on your bedside table, fully intending to give you some space and return later. But before he can get far, you’ve squeaked out a, “No, stay.”

Caleb eases onto your bed slowly. The mattress dips with his weight, but he maintains some distance at first. His eyes scan your body for signs of injury, but you’re curled in on yourself and deliberately angled away from him. His worry mounts as he reaches for your arm, but you reflexively flinch away from his touch. Even you seem shocked at this—your teary doe-eyes waver for a moment with guilt.

Fury flashes hot behind Caleb’s eyelilds for a moment at the fact that someone made you fearful enough to elicit such a response, but he stops trying to touch you, just slings an arm behind your pillows and speaks to you in soft tones.

“It’s okay now, pip-squeak. You’re safe at home. Gran’s here. I’m here. You don’t have to tell me what happened. You don’t even have to say anything. But if you want to cry, you know… I’m right beside you.”

“C-Caleb,” A shudder goes through you. A quiet sob leaves your parted lips, and Caleb’s heart wrenches as you bury your head in his chest, inching closer and closer until you’re flush against him. He can feel you shaking, feel hot tears soaking into his t-shirt, and it’s killing him that he can’t banish your sadness with a thought, a touch.

“This okay?” one hand falls to your forehead, gentle, tentative. “If it’s too much right now, I’ll stop.”

“No, s’okay,” you manage, drawing an arm around his back. “Can you just… hold me?”

Caleb feels as if he might break in half. He pulls you close, his free hand stroking your hair just the way you like, nails running softly over your scalp. The two of you stay like that for a long time as you cry yourself out. You were holding back before, but now that he’s next to you, you feel safe enough to let your tears flow freely, to let unfiltered wails and heaving gasps escape you in waves. Each whimper is a dagger in Caleb’s stomach, but he holds his protective embrace, the only visible traces of the storm roiling under is skin are the unshed tears stinging the corners of his eyes.

Slowly, slowly, your sobs die down and your heartbeat steadies. Your breathing deepens, and your tears dry up. You’re still clinging to him tight, but your features have softened in sleep.

Caleb brushes a kiss on the top of your head and murmurs bitterly into the silence, “Who did this to you?” The unspoken connotation is clear: whoever it is will pay dearly.

Once he’s sure you’re deeply asleep, Caleb pulls out of your grasp a bit, searching for clues. You were off before, hiding something with your closed-off posture. Caleb’s breath catches when he determines why—there are darkening bruises blooming on your skin, one on your left wrist, and two on your thighs, distinctly in the shape of handprints. For a moment, Caleb’s mind goes blank. Visceral, murderous intent surges through his veins at the despicable imagery these marks evoke. Then, his adrenaline-fueled thoughts come all at once, too quickly to parse.

Should he beg Gran to pull you out of school? Burn the place down himself? He could take you out of Linkon, tuck you away in Skyhaven, or in some distant sanctuary where nothing like this would ever happen again.

As for the perpetrator? Whoever it was that dared lay hands on you would never escape his reach, his retribution. Dark, violent scenarios dance before Caleb’s eyes, all the bloody ways he would like to take his revenge. He had worked for years to enter the DAA, but he’d throw everything away if it meant punishing this vile act. But he’ll have to find him first.

Like a sign from the divine, your phone lights up on the bedside table. Caleb swiftly unlocks it, having known your passcode for years. The messages are from someone named Brett. The name vaguely seems familiar, maybe someone in your year who was getting too friendly with you. Caleb had fixed that. When he opened your conversation with him, there were some innocuous messages about homework, plans to meet up for a date hours earlier, and finally, just now, a string of messages that made his skin crawl.

B: I can’t believe u ran off, ur such a tease B: Bet u gave it up to ur ‘brother’ tho, fucking slut B: Wait til I tell everyone u choked on my cock B: Think they’ll believe little miss perfect is really a whore? I do

With shaking hands, Caleb screenshots the messages, sends them to himself, and then sends a new message.

Me: Don’t be butthurt! Changed my mind :p meet me at the park for some fun~

When he receives the desired affirmative response seconds later, Caleb scoffs. He deletes the text thread, blocks Brett’s number and turns your phone off. Then, he pads out of your room, eases the door shut and nearly runs smack into Gran.

“Is she okay?” she pulls her shawl tighter around her shoulders. Caleb can feel the weight of about ten more unasked questions hanging in the air between them. But right now, time is of the essence.

“She will be,” he scowls, swiping his keys off the counter. “I’ll be right back. If she wakes up before I get back, you should keep her company. Maybe bring her some of the ice cream we bought earlier.”

Gran, looking as if she can read Caleb’s mind, but like she knows there’s nothing she can do to stop him when he’s like this short of a sedative, lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Don’t get caught.”

Caleb rolls his eyes. “Do I ever?”

Caleb wishes he could take a picture of the bug-eyed look on Brett Daniels’ face when, instead of the girl he expected to meet for a late-night tryst in the park, a muscle-bound pilot-in-training emerges from the shadowy treeline.

Under different circumstances, he’s sure you’d find the snapshot hilarious.

The bastard blinks once, twice, like maybe he’s hallucinating. He never heard a car pull up, barely even hears the taller man’s footsteps as he approaches. The star basketball player he used to envy is bulkier than he remembered, all broad shoulders and corded muscle. His jaw goes slack, and Caleb doesn’t miss the sheen of sweat that springs to his brow. “C-Caleb Xia… what…?”

Caleb flashes his signature golden-boy grin. Only now, under the silver-blue tint of night, its undertone seems wolfish and threatening. “Surprised to see me, Daniels? You shouldn’t be after tonight’s monumental fuck-up.” He fishes his phone from his pocket, showing off incriminating screenshots of Brett’s whole text thread with you—threats, insults and all.

“H-How—?” The shithead’s throat bobs.

“I have my ways.”

Daniels cringes. He’s never heard Caleb so icy, so eloquent—and your stalwart protector has all the gory details of the night’s encounter. In other words, he’s so fucked.

Panicking, he tries to scramble backward, only for Caleb’s Evol to root him to the spot. The pressure is intense—it’s all Brett can do not to sink to his knees. Still, he fights to remain upright, trying to sound tough.

“What are you doing here, Xia?” he lets out an uneasy nose-laugh. “Playing white knight?”

”Not at all,” Caleb bites back a sardonic smile. He comes to a stop in front of Brett’s trembling form and cracks his knuckles. “My intentions aren’t nearly so noble.”

”H-How are you even here, asshole?” Brett snaps. “Aren’t you supposed to be training in Skyhaven?”

“Ever heard of a weekend visit?” Caleb mocks, all faux-cheer. “Oooh, I see. You thought my living situation would save you, huh? You thought you could get away with touching Pips because I’m busy these days? Because I’m not in school with you anymore? I almost admire your optimism.”

”You’re bluffing,” Brett taunts. His smirk reeks of brash entitlement, and it’s really testing the limits of Caleb’s patience. “You won’t do shit. Not when there’d be CCTV footage that’d ruin your career before it starts. So, you’ve got screenshots. Those are easily doctored. And who do you think people would believe? The son of a prominent government official, or violent gutter trash like you and your whore little sister?”

“I take it back,” Caleb shakes his head, gesturing toward the surrounding area. There are no cameras or surveillance bots, much less anyone passing by. “You’re not an optimist. Just a dipshit.”

”Oh, fuck you—“

Caleb grabs Brett’s hair and yanks it back, hard, eliciting a yelp. His intense stare bores straight into the boy’s soul. When he speaks, there’s no outward anger. Only a calm befitting the sky before a tornado. “Do you think,” he begins, “there’s a distance you could travel, a rat-hole remote enough that I wouldn’t find you to punish your depravity? How naive.”

Brett squirms helplessly against the force of Caleb’s Evol and the vice-grip on his hair. He stares up with red-rimmed, watery eyes filled with desperation, but not an ounce of remorse. ”L-Listen, man,” he blubbers, “I didn’t—she’s the one who flirted with me, okay? She teased me and made me think I’d get what I wanted, and then she chickened out and acted all offended when I tried to hit—”

Caleb’s fist collides with Brett’s nose faster than he can form a thought, faster than a growl can rumble in his chest. The crack as it breaks sends a rush of feral electricity up the base of Caleb’s spine. He wails on him, barely registering the pain in his knuckles or Brett’s agonized screams. He lets his wrath and mad satisfaction crescendo with each strike, only stopping once your assailant’s face is nearly unrecognizable. When he loosens his grip on Brett’s hair, he crumples to the ground in a whimpering heap.

”There we go,” Caleb pants, flicking the blood from his hands and eyeing his work with reverence. “Now you have some lovely bruises to match the ones your disgusting hands left on her skin without consent.”

”Y-You’re insane!”

Brett’s voice breaks pathetically, blood, snot and tears running into his gasping mouth. This time, Caleb can’t hold back the cynical laugh rising in his belly.

”Am I?” His smile is like glass, glinting and jagged in the moonlight. “Because I can’t think of anything less sound of mind than what you’ve done. Letting your selfish need for power override another person’s free will. You really are sick.”

”What about you?” Brett spits. “Does she know you’re here? You’re a hypocrite.”

The word is spoken like it’s meant to wound Caleb’s pride, make him reconsider his position. But it only draws out another low laugh. The sound makes Brett shudder, evoking a fear so primal it feels straight out of a nightmare.

”She doesn’t,” Caleb confirms, “and she never will. But there’s a difference between you and me, Daniels.” Caleb kneels down to be level with Brett’s face.” You were trying to claim something that will never belong to you. And me? I’m simply protecting what’s mine.”

”I knew it,” Brett manages between heaving gasps. “I knew something was going on in that fucked-up little house of yours. You’re both disgusting freaks—gaaah!“

”Do you know what G-forces can do to the human body, Daniels?” Caleb drawls, expression serene in the face of Brett’s pathetic whimpering. There’s a harsh shift in the air as his Evol intensifies. “‘Y’see, most people can handle between 4 and 6 gs before their bodies start taking serious damage. And that’s to say nothing of prolonged exposure. Our brains and hearts aren’t built for that kind of pressure, the rush of blood to and from our extremities.” Caleb emphasizes his point by letting up on the intense pressure, only to slam it down again. Brett retches, blood and bile streaming from the corners of his mouth.

”Most people would have to get on a roller coaster, a rocket or an aerobatic plane to feel something this extreme. But with my Evol, I can demonstrate it with a thought. How is it?” He increases the downforce on Brett’s body, and he groans in agony. “Does it hurt? Or are you too light-headed to register the pain?”

Brett’s eyes flutter, and for a moment, he actually passes out. Caleb scoffs, letting up until he’s conscious again, gasping, pale and disoriented. “That’s called G-LOC. Fun? Some people chase that feeling, but you don’t look like you enjoyed it much.”

“You gonna… kill me?” Brett slurs, barely coherent. “I didn’t even… get my dick wet.”

Caleb’s jaw clenches. He grips Brett’s collar and yanks him up to eye-level. One hand rests on his neck—not hard enough to constrict his airway, but enough that he can feel the frantic flutter of his pulse. Caleb gives a tight smile. “How lucky for you that you didn’t. That means your miserable existence can continue for now.”

“I—You’re letting me go…?”

”On one condition. Go straight to your congressman daddy and explain exactly what his worthless son did. And then tell him if he doesn’t have you transfer schools immediately, not only will I kill you, I’ll release enough evidence to disgrace your family name many times over. Got that?”

All Brett can manage is a little nod.

”Good. I never want to see you in Linkon again. I never want to hear about you touching an unwilling person or coercing someone into sex. Clear?” Another nod. ”Perfect.” Caleb promptly slams his knee against Brett’s crotch and lets him slide to the ground, shaking and sniveling.

The guy’s probably still crying out in pain as Caleb retreats, but he doesn’t register anything besides the blood roaring in his ears. His adrenaline is still running high, he has to actively restrain himself from turning on his heel and pummeling Brett Daniels into the dirt until he stops moving.

When he arrives home, the house is dead silent. Caleb does his best not to make any noise, padding straight for the bathroom to change and clean himself off. His knuckles are all scraped up, but he figures he can chalk it up to Academy training. Gran’d know the truth, but you’d buy that—probably.

Caleb is so deep in thought that it’s a total jumpscare when you appear outside the bathroom door, wrapped in a fluffy robe and rubbing sleep from your puffy eyes.

”Gah, pip-squeak! You scared the crap out of me,” Caleb clutches his chest, taking a few calming breaths.

”Did you go somewhere?” You ask, innocent eyes searching his. Your tone is edged with the slightest bit of worry.

”Nah, not really, just needed some air,” Caleb ruffles your hair and pulls you softly against his chest. You don’t fight him, instead nuzzling your cheek against his heart, seeking a feeling of safety as your hands cling to the soft cotton of his t-shirt. Caleb is nearly overwhelmed by the raw desire to protect, to possess. It wrenches and twists at his insides, fraying the edges of his reason, but he keeps his expression placid, gently stroking your back. “You okay, Pips?”

You sigh into him, your grip tightening. “Mhm. Just… worried about school on Monday.”

Caleb’s lips brush the crown of your head, and his voice is warm and sweet enough to make your chest swell. “Don’t. Everything will be okay. Put your trust in Caleb, and whatever it is will work out.”

You let out a dry little laugh, “You always say that. So cocky.”

”Don’t believe me?” Caleb’s thumb traces your cheek, the dark circle under your eye, like he’s brushing away invisible tears.

You can’t help but lean into his touch. Everything really isn’t okay, you’re still upset and afraid. But when he’s here, things feel lighter. Less overwhelming and sad. You meet his gaze, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I do.”

”Good girl,” Caleb presses his forehead to yours and lingers for a spellbinding moment, eyes lightly closed. He squeezes you tighter in an embrace that’s closer to what he’s always really wanted. A closeness that transcends ‘childhood friend’ or ‘big brother’.

After awhile, though, he forces himself to pull away, to adopt that cheerful, familial affect that protects his peace and conceals his yearning. He slings his arm over your shoulder and steers you toward the kitchen. “I’ll make us some tea, how’s that sound?”

”With honey?”

”’Course.”

masterlist

#lads x reader #sylus x reader #caleb x reader #xavier x reader #zayne x reader #rafayel x reader

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owodi · 14 hours ago

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xavier x f!reader synopsis : taming your husband's hair seems to be just as hard as to tame himself; impossible. tags : fluff, 3rd.myth!xavier, suggestive wc : 480

White curtains flutter and rustle as a cold morning breeze enters through the open window. You lower your book and smile faintly when the sleeping man beside you stirs, the wind seeming to be an uninvited guest as his head on your lap shifts. Like a moth attracted to light, Xavier moves closer to seek your warmth until all of him is draped on top of you, his arm thrown across your thighs in a gentle hold as if they were mere pillows that he nuzzles against.

“Xavier…” His name is a sweet melody in his ears at the way you whisper it so softly, while one of your soft hands tenderly combs through his hair. Cautious of any knots, you untangle the long blond strands and sweep them all to one side over his shoulder until it flows over the mattress like a silky waterfall. “Honestly, we should consider braiding your hair if you refuse to take proper care of it. A little trim for your split ends wouldn't be bad either. Such a tangled mess…”

The melodic tune of birds chirping outside resounds in your chamber yet it has nothing to hold against the gentle quake of the broad back beneath your hand before a lighthearted chuckle reaches your ears. The arm around your legs lifts, and like a soft paint brush, his pointer finger starts drawing idle shapes along the naked skin of your thigh, making your body respond with a brief shiver.

“Indeed, we wouldn’t want to burden the queen with trivial matters such as my hair.” Xavier speaks softly, his voice laced with a tinge of mockery as his finger wanders lower and lower until it reaches the juncture of your knee. Gently, because he knows that you’re ticklish there, his hand settles on the back of your knee and lifts your leg over his shoulder. “Maybe-” A handsome smirk lifts the corner of his lips when he hears you inhale sharply as his warm breath ghosts along the inside of your thigh. “I should cut it short. It wouldn’t get in my way during fights or… meals.”

“In another lifetime maybe, but-” Your chest heaves in an uneven rhythm as you lean over to gather his hair in your palm. Like the finest fabric of silk, it wraps so perfectly around your fist until you have a firm hold on him. Smiles are exchanged when you pull on it and urge him closer to your center, where you need his mouth the most right now. “In this life, I will make sure to hold it whenever you need. I’ll gladly take care of it in your stead, my king.” Take care of you.

With one final kiss on your hipbone, the king’s blue eyes gleam with mirth when you throw your other leg over his shoulder as well. “How merciful of you, my queen. I shall thank you properly for your kind gesture.”

And so he does, until the castle starts buzzing with life again, the staff begins the preparations for breakfast, the maids finish warming up water for your bath which you two take together every morning. Until his beautiful mane was a tangled mess again.

#lads x reader #xavier x reader

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owodi · 2 days ago

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The Cradle Tower: Grief, Guilt, and Love

{A/N: This is just me rambling so I might get somethings wrong. Headcanons may slip in. This is a long one}

I don't know if its been talked about, but a thought occurred to me. We're all well aware why Maleficia, Malleus' grandmother, wasn't able to hatch his egg. She was busy with political matters related to the aftermath of the "war" with the Silver Owls and neighboring countries. This led to her only being able to visit Malleus for short periods of time, just enough to feed him magic and love. And we all know what happens next.

But I want to propose something...

❉ ╤╤╤╤╤╤╤╤╤╤╤╤╤╤ ✿ ╤╤╤╤╤╤╤╤╤╤╤╤╤╤ ❉

What if there's another reason why Maleficia couldn't hatch Malleus? He's still her grandson and the last remaining piece of her only child. A constant reminder that Maleanor existed.

That her daughter lived a happy life. She was wedded to man she loved with her whole being and together they bore a son they cherished dearly.

And that's why Maleficia couldn't hatch Malleus.

Because Malleus is her daughter's first and only son.

Maleanor should've been the one standing here in the cradle tower next to her egg, her son. She should be the one lending her love and magic. She should be the one telling stories. She should be the one singing lullabies.

Not her.

Yet here she was. Doing the things her daughter could've done.

What I'm trying to get at is this: What if Maleficia's grief over her daughter's passing stopped her from hatching Malleus? What if her guilt—guilt over not giving her daughter the chance to fully experience motherhood—held her back?

Every time she visited her grandson, she was reminded of what could’ve been if her daughter were still here. Her loud, boisterous laughter. Her exaggerated storytelling. Her stubborn refusal to leave the tower to attend royal duties. Her sweet and gentle singing as she lulled her son to sleep.

Maleanor should've been the one standing here.

And that thought eats her up inside—so much so that, instead of feeding her grandson love, she was feeding him grief and guilt. Maybe that's another reason why Malleus nearly joined the stars?

Maleficia lived for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. Years filled with experience. But her time as a mother was filled with challenges she never expected: secret passageways appearing out of nowhere in the castle, mediating ridiculous arguments, finding her castle in a frenzy over a missing princess or a princess throwing a tantrum, and sharing responsibilities after another reckless act on her daughter’s part.

And yet… deep down, Maleficia would’ve taken those kinds of challenges any day over the one presented to her now.

She’d rather clean up another of her daughter’s messes than plan her funeral.

❉ ╧╧╧╧╧╧╧╧╧╧╧╧╧╧ ✿ ╧╧╧╧╧╧╧╧╧╧╧╧╧╧ ❉

✯¸.•´¨*•¸.•´¨*•¸.•´¨*•¸.•✿ↈ✿•.¸•*¨`•.¸•*¨`•.¸•*¨`•.¸•*¨`•.¸✯

Another thing... For my MalleYuu readers, I have an angst idea.

I'm sure we can all agree that the majority of Yuus are humans. And I've come across some short fics where the reader has trouble giving birth to Malleus’ child, as a consequence of being a magicless human while he is a dragon. So childbirth becomes a heavy burden on the body, whether through oviparity or viviparity, aka laying an egg or giving live birth.

I'm sure you know where I’m going with this.

And for the sake of angst, let's go with the egg route.

So, what if...You had complications at birth where your health is in critical condition to the point where the doctors couldn't tell whether or not you'd make it, and Malleus is panicking. He had to choose on who check on first. You or your guy's child?

Neither of you are in stable condition. The doctors have taken the egg to the cradle tower for monitoring and to stabilize its condition. You two are in opposite direction. With Malleus' current emotional turmoil, using magic nearby may worsen both of your condition. So he had to choose which one he should stay with.

You, barely conscious, push him to go to the egg. You reassure him that you’ll be fine. You're pale, ashen face didn't convince him.

He doesn’t move. Frozen, panicking. He didn't register his grandmother's hand on his shoulder.

“Stay with your beloved,” Maleficia says softly. “Lilia and I shall watch over the egg.”

Outside, the storm lessens.

So he stays with you.

And Maleficia and Lilia go to the cradle tower.

. . .

Maleficia didn't expect to be in this situation again. Taking care of someone else's egg. Yes, the parents are still alive, resting within the castle walls. And she is not alone this time. She’s with a trusted companion. But still, this situation drags her back into the depths of memory and pain.

The old dragon watches silently as a few doctors and nurses examine the egg. Beside them, Lilia hums a lullaby, trying to ease the tense atmosphere.

Maleficia’s hands are clasped tightly together. She finds herself praying for the first time in what must be centuries.

'Mother, if you hear me. Please let this child feel the warmth and love of both of their parents.'

[I don't where the idea came from. But I really like the idea that Malleus is a descendent of the Thorn Fairy.]

✯¸.•´¨*•¸.•´¨*•¸.•´¨*•¸.•✿ↈ✿•.¸•*¨`•.¸•*¨`•.¸•*¨`•.¸•*¨`•.¸✯

{A/N: I have an urge to give angst to the Overblotters' parents. My fic is already doing Mrs. Rosehearts.}

#twst x reader #malleus x reader #lilia vanrouge #maleficia draconia #meleanor draconia

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owodi · 2 days ago

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Jade and Floyd Leech

#twst fanart #jade leech #floyd leech

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owodi · 2 days ago

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Lilia Vanrouge x Reader (smut, mostly implied)

You are a bit anxious/overworked so Lilia has you using that energy for other things.

Thinking about you being anxious/overworked. To the point it's detrimental to your health. So Lilia takes you and locks you in your room with him.

No one can get in. This becomes his domain now.

He has your wrists held in one hand while he towers over you.

"Go on sweetheart, use that energy to bring yourself to completion..if you can khufu~"

He wants you to rub yourself to release with your thighs.

But no matter what you do, it doesn't work. You start to sweat and beg for release.

Lilia merely smiles, eyes darkening. He helps you but not fully.

His fingers inserts themselves into your warmth.

The speed slow, too slow.

It's not enough. You beg for more. Thighs trying to push him deeper, but he doesn't budge.

He kisses your forehead, "Shh, sweet one, I know. I know."

He slightly increases the speed. You start to peak but then he retracts his fingers.

You protest.

You whine.

Begging for more.

And he repeats this.

Over and over.

Until your bedsheets is soaked but you never fully reach your crest.

At one point, Lilia has your hands tied by magical shadows. So his can roam free to tease. Leaving bite marks on you. Teasing your nipples with a fang. Kissing your stomach.

Before going down on you. The tempo changes between achingly slow and quick but he never allows you to fall.

After wiping your tears from your eyes, the stimulation made you sensitive, he finally lets you peak and fall on his fingers while he kisses you.

Humming a tune with a smirk, h e then entwines his fingers with yours. Just once more precious.

You begged so many times to fall, won't you do it. Just once more? He sheathes himself in you. How warm you are. How sweet. He can make a home in you.

By the time you both are done, you are too tired to be anything but worn and ruined by him. He kisses you softly as he wraps you in his arms. Happy to see you relaxed and loved.

#twst smut #lilia x reader

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owodi · 2 days ago

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【twst】Malleus(little) 【ツイステ】幼体マレウス

Summer🛟

#twst fanart #malleus draconia

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owodi · 2 days ago

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Making a cloak for Malleus as a birthday gift

*background slightly traced

#twst fanart #sebek zigvolt #silver

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owodi · 2 days ago

Note

*comes in quietly on tippy toes and whispers to you, fiddling with my fingers nervously.*

Hey!! I love your dad!Lads oneshots and drabbles. May I pretty please make a teeny tiny request?? It would be like a birthday gift for me, (15 July, is my b-day!!)

I had three scenario ideas in mind, I don't mind if you make all of them or not...

1.) The lil Kids first tantrum in a toy store or grocery store about wanting some toy they are too small for or something plain unreasonable.

2.) The kiddies pickiness for certain food, like absolutely refusing to eat something or how much they love to eat something.

3.) The kids first time visiting their Dad's workplace!!

Oof..... I'm sorry if it seems unreasonable..... i just thought about them as dads and the ideas just automatically typed themselves....

Dad!Lads bringing their child at work for the first time! ( ˶ˆᗜˆ˵ )

—♥︎♥︎ Dad!Rafayel, Dad!Caleb, Dad!Sylus, Dad!Zayne, Dad!Xavier — xavier solo fanfic coming soon... Angst or fluff? ¬‿¬

Belated happy birthday @silver--47 ><!!! I hope you had an amazing birthday! I will definitely be adding your other ideas to my list of upcoming fanfics (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

RAFAYEL —

Rafayel had no plans of going to today’s art exhibition.

He’d much rather stay home, wait for you to finish work, and avoid the crowd of critics and guests entirely. He had already seen the paintings during their rawest, most intimate stages, why bother dressing up and standing in front of them like a stranger?

But before he could get comfortable, two small arms wrapped tightly around his leg.

“Nooo!! Daddy!! WE have to go to the art exhibition!!!” your daughter insisted, her tiny voice full of urgency as she looked up at him with pleading eyes.

Rafayel blinked. “You want to go with me?”

She nodded furiously. “I wanna see your paintings! I wanna look at everything!”

He sighed, dramatically rubbing his forehead like he was being dragged into a royal affair, but the soft smile that followed gave him away. “Alright, little guppy. Let’s go to the art exhibition...”

The moment they arrived at the exhibition, she was starstruck.

Her eyes widened with every step, her tiny shoes echoing softly across the gallery floor as she led him from one painting to the next. She took her time with each piece, squinting up at them like she was reading a fairy tale written in brushstrokes.

“Daddy, did you paint this one when I was sleeping?”

“Mhm, that one too.”

“Daddy, Did you miss me while you painted it?”

“Always.”

She gasped and held onto his hand even tighter.

She asked questions about colors, stories, shapes, why the moon looked sad, why the ocean looked like it was dancing, why the woman in one painting looked like mommy. And Rafayel, for once, wasn't rushing to the next thing. He crouched beside her, letting her heart guide the pace.

At some point, she tugged on his sleeve and whispered, “Daddy, I wanna make a painting with you someday. A really, really, super duper big one!”

He smiled, tucking a stray strand of her hair behind her ear. “Then we will. We’ll make one together. And I’ll frame it next to mine.”

By the time they got home, her energy had finally run out.

Her small arms were looped around Rafayel’s neck, and her head rested sleepily against his shoulder, her cheeks still flushed from all the excitement. She mumbled into his shirt, “Best ‘bition ever…”

He gave a quiet chuckle, gently rocking her in his arms. “Tired already, sweetie?"

You opened the door just in time to see the two of them, your daughter clinging to him like a koala, Rafayel holding her as though she were the most precious painting he’d ever carried.

“She was the real star of the show,” he murmured to you with a grin. “Made me look at my own work like it was brand new.”

And before he set her down, he whispered, “Next time, she’s helping me paint one.”

CALEB —

You had mountains of work piled up today, and though it pained you to miss it, Caleb was the one who got to take your daughter to his workplace this time.

She had been waiting for this day forever.

“Dress me up in the prettiest one, Mommy! The ruffly one!” she had said, already pulling out her favorite dress from the closet with sparkling eyes. She even asked if she could wear her shiny shoes, the ones she reserved for very special days.

And when Caleb finally came out, ready in uniform, she lit up like a firework.

“Daddy! Let’s go!” she beamed, lifting her arms up high with a bounce in her step, clearly demanding her ride. Caleb chuckled, effortlessly lifting her into his arms, her little bag bouncing behind her.

“Alright, Mini colonel,” he said teasingly. “Let’s report for duty.”

The fleet base was a whole new world for her.

Caleb didn’t bring her into any of the serious areas, just a quick tour around a few aircrafts on standby and his private office, but for your daughter, it was everything.

She kept gasping and giggling as aircrafts roared in the sky above, her little hands pressed against her ears, then flung out like wings as she tried to mimic them.

“Daddy, that one’s so loud!”

Caleb laughed. “You’ll get used to it.”

Her bangs kept flying wildly in the wind, sticking to her forehead and fluttering with every gust, until Caleb finally chuckled and knelt in front of her.

“Here,” he said, gently placing his colonel cap on her head, adjusting it carefully. “You’re in charge now.”

She giggled, practically buzzing with pride, and saluted him in return.

“Aye aye, Daddy!”

By the time they got home, she practically burst through the door before he even finished unlocking it.

“Mommy!!” she squealed, running up to you. “There were airplanes everywhere! One went BOOM in the sky! And I wore Daddy’s hat! And I sat in his office chair! And—!”

You glanced at Caleb as she breathlessly continued her excited report, and he gave you a soft smile, his cap still a bit crooked from her small hands.

“She was on a mission today,” he said. “and she's a mini colonel too now i guess"

SYLUS —

It started with a pout.

Then the crossed arms.

Then the silent stares at the floor.

Then the dramatic flops onto the couch with a groan of “I never get to go with Daddy…”

Skyler, Your daughter, had been sulking for two full days straight after Sylus told her she couldn’t come with him to work. And frankly, with him being the leader of Onychinus, you had every reason to say no.

But eventually, even Sylus finally caved in.

“…One day,” he muttered, eyes narrowed at her. “Only one. And you stay close to me.”

She gasped, eyes wide with excitement. “REALLY?!”

You sighed, “This is a bad idea.”

“It’s already too late,” Sylus replied as she rushed off to pick out her sparkliest pink dress.

When they arrived at his meeting, she was nestled in her father’s arms, glittery skirt bouncing with every step and pink sunglasses perched proudly on her nose. Her tiny shoes clicked across the cold Onychinus floors like she owned the place.

The guests in the meeting, coldblooded, sharp, silent as shadows—paused.

But no one said a word. Because even in his nice shirt and with a sparkly child in one arm, Sylus was still Sylus—and no one dared laugh.

She sat in his lap during the entire meeting, occasionally scribbling something on a pink notepad with a glitter pen while the others presented reports on surveillance, inventory, and security drills. At one point she whispered, “Daddy, this is boring.”

He gave her a cookie from his coat pocket.

After the meeting, they walked through some of the lower floors. She was curious about everything, tugging at his coat, asking questions like, “Daddy, Does this button explode stuff?” and “Daddy, Can I sit on that chair?”

Then came the moment.

While Sylus was checking something on a monitor, she wandered just a few steps too far and picked up a gun from a crate with a bright, innocent, “Oooh! Daddy, i saw luke and kieran holding these at the house!”

Sylus turned instantly, voice soft but gentle.

“Sweetie, put that down....”

She blinked up at him, still holding it with both hands. “I want this, daddyyyy....!!"

He exhaled, gently but swiftly taking it from her hands, then crouched to her eye level.

"No, sweetie. That's not a toy, mommy will get mad if you use that..."

“…but mommy has one...” she asked.

"Mommy's a hunter, sweetie.." he lightly chuckled before picking up your daughter.

When they got home hours later, she burst through the door with a dramatic spin in her glittery dress.

“Mommy! I went to Daddy’s work and sat on his chair and he gave me a cookie and I saw a super big screen and a secret door and a GUN—!”

You froze. “She what?”

Sylus walked in behind her, amused.

“She touched it. She’s fine. It won’t happen again,” he muttered, loosening his collar.

You glared. “She’s not going back—”

But she had already launched herself onto the couch, kicking her feet in the air. “I wanna go again tomorrow!”

Sylus paused, then chuckled at your daughter.

ZAYNE —

Jasmine, you and Zayne's daughter, had been counting down all week to go with her father to the hospital. She admired him so much, his calm voice, his white coat, the way people looked up to him. Whenever someone asked what she wanted to be when she grew up, she always answered proudly, “I wanna be a doctor like Daddy!”

Since you had a long mission at work, you and Zayne had agreed, after much convincing and pleading. that today, she could tag along with him. And the excitement on her face was brighter than the morning sun.

She wore a tiny white coat over her dress, with a toy stethoscope hanging around her neck, and her hand never left Zayne’s as they walked through the hospital doors.

The moment they stepped in, the atmosphere shifted.

Zayne’s colleagues and interns, used to his serious demeanor and quiet presence—did not expect to see a miniature version of him walking beside him, clutching his hand with a matching pout and identical dark eyes.

“Is that…?” someone whispered.

“She looks exactly like Dr. Zayne!”

Zayne noticed the stares, but before he could say anything, his daughter tugged lightly at his pants.

“Daddy… up,” she said quietly, her arms raised.

Without hesitation, he scooped her up into his arms.

She rested her head on his shoulder but peeked out just enough to wave shyly at the nurses and residents who greeted them with amused smiles and warm “Good mornings.” Some waved back, trying not to coo too loudly under Zayne’s very neutral expression.

“She’s… really Dr. Zayne's daughter, huh,” one nurse whispered to another. “A literal miniture copy of him...”

Finally, They settled into Zayne’s office where she made herself very comfortable.

She sat in his lap while he worked through paperwork, nibbling on snacks from her lunchbox and occasionally “signing” pretend documents on a clipboard he gave her. Zayne would pause every now and then to brush crumbs off her cheeks or adjust her tiny coat when it slipped off her shoulders.

“This one’s important, Daddy,” she said seriously, holding up a scribbled sheet of paper.

“Is it?” he asked, lips twitching in amusement. “Alright. I’ll review it later.”

When it was time for Zayne to head to surgery, Yvonne came in to look after her, She had seen your daughter multiple times already and both already familiar with each other.

Zayne crouched to her eye level and gently cupped her cheek. “Be good, alright? I’ll be back soon.”

She nodded with a small pout. “Okay, Daddy. But next time… I wanna see the surgery..”

He hesitated. “It was a bad one today, sweetheart. You’re still too young.”

She didn’t argue, just looked down and quietly said, “Someday?”

He smiled softly and tapped her nose. “Someday.”

When they got home, she ran straight to you.

"Mommy! I helped daddy sign paperworks today.. the people in the hospital said i look exactly like daddy! Does that mean I'm going to be just like him?"

You gave Zayne a look. He just calmly took off his coat and said, “She behaved well. Stayed focused. A natural.”

And from the look in her eyes?

She definitely planned on joining her father at the hospital again. Probably every week if you'd let her.

XAVIER —

The morning was a whirlwind of prepping as you kissed Xavier goodbye, handing him the essentials for his mission at the Hunter’s Association, except this time, he had a different kind of mission. bringing your son along.

“Lunch is in the green box, snacks in the blue one, coloring book in the front pocket, toy on the side, and baby carrier's in the back. Call me if he throws a fit. Or you do,” you teased, brushing a hand through your son's hair before Xavier chuckled and adjusted the strap of the baby bag.

“I think I’ll be the one throwing the fit,” he muttered, pressing a kiss to your lips and his son's cheek before heading out.

The Hunter’s Association wasn’t prepared.

The moment Xavier stepped inside, your son, bundled up in his alien hoodie and clutching his plush toy, bunbun,became the center of attention.

“Oh my god, he’s real!”

“That’s mc's and Xavier’s kid?!”

The two of them walked past workstations, and it wasn’t long before everyone was offering sweets, cookies, and snacks with the kind of adoration reserved for royalty. Your son, of course, accepted them all like a polite little gremlin prince, wide eyed and solemn, clutching a cookie in one hand and his toy in the other.

“Someone’s popular, huh?” Xavier said as he chuckled at your son.

Eventually, after all the attention, the sugar high wore off. Your son started to do that thing where he blinked slowly and leaned heavily against Xavier’s leg before plopping right onto the floor. Xavier sighed, scooped him up with practiced ease, and tucked him into the baby carrier strapped against his chest.

The rest of the afternoon, Xavier worked calmly, typing one handed while your son napped against him, snoring softly, drool dripping to soak into his dad’s shirt. No one dared say a word, too afraid to ruin the peace, or maybe too charmed by the sight.

By the end of the day, Xavier glanced down at the sleeping child on his chest and muttered, “...You better not expect snacks like that every time.”

But he knew, deep down, his son absolutely would.

#lads x reader #sylus x reader #rafayel x reader #caleb x reader #xavier x reader #zayne x reader

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owodi · 3 days ago

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caleb whining and bucking under your gentle, teasing touch, head thrown back and eyes rolling as he cums so hard some of it splatters against his chest. you hum, not stopping, using the cum as lube as you continue to work him through the high, and caleb's thick thighs flex as he murmurs something through the haze. "g'nna cum g'nna cum g'nna cum g'nna cum g'nna cum g'nna cum g'nna cum g'nna cum g'nna cum g'nna cum g'nna cum g'nna cum g'nna cum g'nna cum-" he keens as he comes for the nth time that day, but you only chuckle as you keep pressing on. this is his punishment, after all.

reposted from my old account. originally posted on march 23 2025.

#lads smut #caleb x reader

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owodi · 3 days ago

Text

Imagine being Caleb's streamer significant other.

Imagine it was supposed to be a normal stream.

Imagine it was just a regular night of you. Your headset and some mildly concerning energy drinks. You were three matches deep into ranked, half losing your voice, half losing your sanity and fully locked in.

"Alright, alright, we push A this time." You said, already running in site. "No thoughts. Just aim. Trust. Have fun." And then a familiar name popped up in chat.

1sht1kll: Be honest. You got a boyfriend?

Imagine the way you raised a brow. "Boyfriend?" You peeked A short, headshotted Reyna and casually leaned back. "Nah" You said smug. "Who needs a boyfriend when I've got recoil control and abandonment issues?" The chat exploded.

Ztrope: LMAO BYE

Abcdefg: Single queen alert

Ladsslave: THAT'S why your aim's so clean. No distractions.

2days3days: So you're saying I can apply??

Imagine the way you grinned as the you clutch the round. "Applications open. Must bring snacks and not ask me to log off. Ever." And then.

10,000 DONATION: ColonelApple

Message: Interesting. When did I get replaced by snacks?

Imagine the way your heart stopped. And the name. The name. You blinked at the screen like it personally betrayed you. "… Huh?"

Ztrope: WHO??

Abcdefg: 10K TO CLAIM YOU??

Ladsslave: They said no boyfriend and this guy shows up swinging.

2days3days: Bro what kind of username is ColonelApple

Imagine the way your headset nearly slipped off. "Chat. Relax. It's just- He's… a friend."

15,000 DONATION: ColonelApple

Message: A friend who literally pays your rent?

Imagine the way you choked. "CA- Caleb-!" Chat exploded again.

Ztrope: EXCUSE ME WHAT THE ****

Ladsslave: Not them saying 'friend' while living with a sugar daddy

Abcdefg: Rent??? That's a boyfriend or a very expensive ghost

1sht1kll: Girl if he's a friend I'm a space pilot

Imagine you were already blusing so bad trying to form words when a new notification came in.

20,000 DONATION: ColonelApple

Message: Drink your water. Don't make me call a restaurant again.

Imagine the way you wheezed. "I was going to drink-"

30,000 DONATION: ColonelApple

Message: Do it now.

Imagine you eventually grabbed the water bottle with trembling fingers. Mumbling something about being cyberbullied by your own boyfriend.

Ztrope: OH SO HE IS YOUR BOYFRIEND

Abcdefg: Chat W

2days3days: I knew it. I KNEW IT.

Ladsslave: You lied to us and got caught in 4K by your rich, passive-aggressive boyfriend

Imagine you ran a hand down your face. "Okay. Look. Technically… I never said I don't have a boyfriend. I said I didn't need one."

25,000 DONATION: ColonelApple

Message: Keep talking. Let's see if you still get your GPU upgrade.

"You're bluffing." You froze.

30,000 DONATION: ColonelApple

Message: Am I?

Imagine you screamed. "Caleb! You're being so dramatic- stop donating, you're gonna bankrupt yourself!" He didn't respond. But the chat did.

Ztrope: I want a jealous sugar daddy too 😭

Abcdefg: show his face. no more faceless rich boyfriend propaganda

1sht1kll: Guys 100 says he's mid

Ladsslave: 200 says he's hot and smug about it

Imagine the way you laugh and held up your hands. "Okay, okay. No face reveals today. He's not even home. Probably doing something military and mysterious. You know, colonel things."

Imagine right on cue your door creaked open. You froze. "... No way." Caleb stepped in like he belonged there. Which to be fair, he did. Wearing his dark jacket, underneath you could already see his sleeves rolled up, holding your favorite takeout in one hand and your cat in the other.

Imagine he looked at you. Then at the camera. And smirked. "Still single?" You died. Your chat died harder.

Ztrope: I AM ON THE FLOOR

Abcdefg: BRO??? BROOOOO???

2days3days: NOT THE BARE ARMS. HE'S HANDSOME. I'M MAD

1sht1kll: 100 down the drain. I was humbled.

Imagine Caleb walked over like a man on a mission. He set the food down, handed you the cat then leaned into the mic with all the casual confidence of someone who could win a war and still be home for dinner.

"Next time they ask if you have a boyfriend." He said, eyes on the screen. "Just tell them this guy's got his own aircraft."

50,000 DONATION: ColonelApple

Message: And they still think they have a chance?

Imagine the way you screamed again. "Caleb!" He kissed your cheek. "Hey. You told them you were single. I'm just correcting misinformation."

Ladsslave: I can't even be mad. he’s EARNED the smug

Ztrope: the aircraft reveal… the timing… the face…

Abcdefg: Yeah I'd flex him too

2days3days: we lost. good game everyone.

Imagine you sat there, still holding the cat, still blushing like a maniac, totally forgetting about your game that is now over while your chat grieved their collective delusion.

Imagine Caleb opened the takeout for you, adjusted your chair, and whispered. "You're streaming for another hour, right?" You nodded weakly still processing how everything unfolded. "... Yeah."

Imagine he pulled over another chair. "Good. I'm queueing with you." Your jaw dropped. "Wait- Caleb. You don't even play- Do you even know how to play valorant?"

Imagine he already had the second PC starting. And when the queue popped? He actually top fragged. Casually. Effortlessly. As if he wasn't a military colonel who flew fighter jets and apparently now stole hearts on stream too. And chat? Chat was never the same again.

#lads x reader #caleb x reader

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owodi · 3 days ago

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Hi! May i ask you to write a Sylus x afab reader? I think that Sylus seems to be a person who likes having more confident, badass girls who are not afraid of anything, but what if the reader is not like that? Someone who is more quiet and gentle? Who is introverted and likes their own peace and quiet? It doesn't mean that she cannot act differently, hide her true herself very well, when situations need that. She also understands sarcasm and can make jokes, it's just that her personality is more gently and subtle than MC?

I really like Sylus and I have a personality like this, but actually I think that he can see me as boring...have a nice day/night <3

𐙚˙⋆.˚ sylus x fem!reader ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ fluff! ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ sfw! ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ do not translate/copy/repost! ꒰੭

﹙♡﹚oh, you sweet angel ( ˶•ᴖ•) !! he wouldn't find you boring at all! none of them would for that matter, but def not sylus! thanks so much for requesting, i hope you like this and start seeing sylus from a different perspective! ♡

you're his peace.

he's confident, he's strong, he's determined.

he strikes when he has to, and sits back when problems aren't worthy of his attention.

he basically controls everything, both instantly, and from the sidelines.

so, naturally, having someone as quiet and observant as you is grounding.

he knows he can count on you whenever he needs you, but he also knows when and where. most of the time, he'll keep you away from danger.

sure, you're strong, but he knows your limits, and he also knows what you're comfortable doing, and what you have to force yourself to do.

and he would never let you force yourself.

you're you, and he loves that.

and he loves protecting you, so why throw you into the fire when he can quite literally avoid doing so?

with that said, sylus is adaptable.

his hobbies don't involve much talking, and —let's be honest— he'd be alone at his base if it wasn't for luke and kieran… and mephs.

he listens to his records, he goes for nightly rides, he's awake when everyone else is asleep, so being quiet is just another part of his day.

and honestly? being quiet with you is comforting.

knowing you'll be doing your own thing, yet still silently lean against his side or steal soft kisses when you think he isn't aware.

knowing that if he asks for your point of view, you'll always have small details to point out, since you're almost always observing rather than acting.

knowing your approaches are different, but he can trust you blindly —as much as you trust him.

and i feel like sylus would enjoy it even more when you're playful, because it isn't exactly loud or extreme.

it's teasing. it's subtle. it's so you…

and so him, too.

you two are so alike in a way he knows how to act under certain circumstances, and how to act when he can finally relax —which is only by your side.

and if you ever feel like he needs a stronger girlfriend, someone who isn't boring, someone who isn't afraid to strike back and take down every obstacle in her way without hesitation, he'll just stop in his tracks, dumbfounded.

because why would his calm, gentle melody ever want to change her pace?

why would you want to change something he loves so much —something that helps him sit down and finally breathe after dealing with so much?

no.

he won't have it.

as much as he protects you from the world, he will protect you from yourself and any harmful thoughts that try to diminish you.

you're the soft tune that always plays in the background; the one you can barely perceive, but the one that stays stuck in people's heads for weeks.

and he finds himself humming to your rhythm every time…

because you're engraved in his heart —better than any of his most prized melodies.

and he treasures what's completely his fiercely.

with you, there's no mask, no weight, no guard. just warmth, gentleness, and him finally at ease.

and your peaceful melody is the only one that feels like home.

#lads x reader #sylus x reader

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owodi · 3 days ago

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Bride of the Last Dragon.

Chapter Two — A Voice Older Than Fire

[ dragon!sylus x f!reader ]

They say a dragon’s fury is born of hunger, but I have seen the truth: rage takes root in the fractures of a heart that once dared to hope. The kingdom calls him a monster, striving to quiet his wrath with tributes of gold and the bodies of trembling brides. I was meant to be the latest sacrifice—just another lamb led to sate a legend. Yet in the mountain’s shadow, I discovered a creature who despises the fear that sustains him, who watches me with eyes older than the sun. We are bound by something deeper than duty, more dangerous than love. And as the world begins to burn, only I can choose what price mercy demands. Some stories are forged in fire; others, in quiet ruin. This is a tale of both. “Where love dares to bloom, destruction follows.”

ABOUT | 2.6k. slow burn. doomed yearning. moral ambiguity. impossible choices. ancient grief. quiet moments before the storm. a sword raised in mercy.

TAGS | dark romantasy. monster x maiden. political decay. psychological tension. cursed love. final betrayal. moral ruin. fire and ash.

MUSIC : the valley // nadiiife

INDEX : prologue ✧ one ✧ two ✧

Chapter Two — A Voice Older Than Fire

THE MOUNTAIN DID NOT...

...welcome me.

The passage behind me narrowed with every step, until even the memory of the world above dissolved into stone. Light did not fade—it vanished. Sound was the next to go, swallowed whole.

Only the hush of leather brushing rock remained. My boots slid against obsidian polished smooth by time—or by something older. Something deliberate. Beads of moisture clung to the walls, fine as breath on glass.

The deeper I descended, the colder it became. Not the chill of wind, but of something ancient. The air tasted of iron and decay. Not rot. Not filth. But the ruin of something once living, long devoured.

They called this mountain a grave. But graves were meant to hold peace. This place breathed.

Far above, the earth had sealed its mouth. I brought no torch. Only a slender trail of silver charms stitched into the lining of my cloak—protection, guidance, tradition. My fingers found them now, less out of belief than habit. My mother had sewn them into my collar when I was thirteen, hands trembling as she whispered, “One day, you’ll need them.”

I hadn’t believed her then. Now, I gripped those charms like a blade.

The path coiled inward, tightening with every turn. A serpent at rest. Strange carvings emerged from the stone—some symbols, others visions. A sun pierced with arrows. A cracked crown. A woman veiled in fire.

I paused before one. A lion brought low by a serpent of flame, its golden mane turned to ash.

The crest of the Western Kingdom. Gone. Erased, like all the others who entered here.

Clawed sigils marked the walls. Old dialects. No inscription newer than the Pact. No markings after the first bride vanished into this dark. As if even history refused to speak once she crossed the threshold.

Then—the silence shifted. Not broken. Bent. Like breath held just a moment too long.

Something was listening.

I turned sharply. Nothing.

Still, the weight of unseen attention thickened the air. Not cruel. But certain. Like being tasted without ever being touched.

The tunnel widened.

I stepped carefully into a vast hollow. Its ceiling disappeared into blackness. Columns of obsidian rose like ribs, vanishing into the dark above. The light from the entrance had abandoned me.

Instead, a dull red glow seeped from cracks in the ceiling—faint as dying embers. Just enough to see. Not enough to warm.

And yet... I felt watched.

Relics littered the chamber. A tarnished diadem, crooked on a stone slab. A single slipper, silk rotted away. A comb, its teeth tangled with strands of black hair. Beneath my boots, something crunched.

Brittle petals. Roses. Or poppies. Their scent had long since vanished.

I knelt beside a hand mirror. Its glass was fractured clean through the center. My reflection stared back at me in two shards.

Not garlanded in innocence. Not wrapped in finery. A stranger. Carved from resolve and silence.

No longer the girl who climbed cherry trees. No longer the girl who begged for stories of faraway cities.

I slid the mirror into my cloak.

The air shifted again. Not cold—charged.

My hand went to the blade at my side.

Plain steel. A hilt worn smooth at the grip. I’d wrapped it myself with threads from my mother’s wedding gown. She had not wanted this ending for me. But she had taught me what it meant to stand.

Ahead, the chamber narrowed into another passage.

Its arch wasn’t worn. It was carved. Jagged, clawed.

I stepped toward it. Then paused.

For the first time, my footsteps echoed.

Not alone. Not anymore.

A weight gathered above me. Not presence— Intention. As if something just beyond reach was deciding whether I was worth the effort of rising.

Then came the sound.

Not a growl. Not the scream I’d braced for.

A chuckle.

Low. Dry. Almost amused.

It slipped into the silence like oil on water—thin, unclean, clinging. It wound along the walls, slipped between ribs, and settled cold in the hollow of my chest.

“Another one,”

The voice was not loud. And yet—it filled the space as though it had always belonged to the stone. Each word shaped to echo, carried by walls that seemed carved for the purpose. Smooth. Low. Laced with something overripe, like fruit left too long beneath a summer sun.

“Do they all rehearse the same entrance? The hush. The careful tread. The little blade pressed to a shaking thigh?”

Another laugh. This one softer. Warmer. Amused.

“Ah. But you’re different, aren’t you?”

I said nothing.

My hand stayed on the hilt at my side. Fingers steady. Steadier than my heart.

He continued as if I’d spoken.

“The last one tried to sing. Did they mention that? Thought to lull the monster like a child at the breast.” A pause, edged darker— “She bled beautifully.”

His words cut like frost through my lungs. Thin. Bitter. Sharp.

My throat tightened. But I didn’t flinch.

I would not give him what he wanted.

The chamber had grown. I could feel it now. Vaulted—like the ribs of a ruined cathedral. Far above, narrow balconies clung to the stone, watching places carved into shadow. Not for guests. Not for escape.

Graves.

In the center of the space, a staircase curled upward in slow, deliberate arcs, ending at a scorched platform. No throne. No altar. Just a circle of blackened earth where nothing dared take root.

I stepped forward.

Another footfall. Another echo. Another laugh.

“You’re bold,” he said. “That much is new. Not clever, perhaps. But bold.”

“Where are you?”

My voice didn’t rise. Still, it carried. The echo came back stronger than I expected—steady. Clear.

A sigh followed, light with mock astonishment.

“She speaks. Tell me, did they sweeten your tongue with honey before they sent you here? Or just empty promises?”

I turned, slowly. Eyes scanning stone. The shadows shifted—but none breathed. No outline moved as flesh.

Still... he watched.

“Do you ever tire of it?” I asked. “The theater. The waiting.”

A pause. Long enough to suggest amusement. Long enough to wound.

“Do you?”

My jaw tightened.

I stepped across the scorched ring and knelt beside something half-buried in dust. A scrap of lace. A veil—once white. Now yellowed to the color of forgotten bone. I brushed it with the back of my hand.

Beneath it: a single pearl, cracked down the middle. Dulled by time.

“I’ve heard every story,” I said. “The dragon who wears skin like a crown. Who drinks fire. Who devours brides whole.”

He hummed. A soft, indulgent sound.

“You forgot charming.”

“And cruel.”

“Only as cruel as the truth,” he replied. “Tell me—what lie did they ask you to carry? That I’m a beast? A god? A curse wearing a man’s face? Or merely something too wild to keep among kings?”

I offered him no answer. Some names lose power when left unanswered. Others become prophecy.

He stirred again. Not in the body—if he had one—but in presence. A shift along the bones of the cavern. A breath drawn low against my skin.

“They send you to die,” he said. “And yet you come—wrapped in silk, stitched with silver, pretending not to tremble. Why?”

“To end you.”

The silence that followed was not empty. It assessed.

And when he spoke again, the sound was not quite laughter, not quite sorrow— Something weightier. Dipped in contempt.

“And what will you do, little blade?”

“Press that pretty dagger to my chest? To the same heart that outlived empires? That bled for kings who called me brother—until they learned I would not be caged?”

I didn’t move.

A soft click of the tongue followed— Like a disappointed tutor.

“No. You won’t. Not yet. You’re already trembling—but not from fear. No, not you.”

His voice darkened, laced with a strange, curious fondness.

“You burn with it, don’t you? That righteous fire. The belief that this time will be different. That you are.”

My hand curled tighter around the hilt.

“You think you’re the first to come with her own will,” he said.

“I am,” I answered.

And the stillness changed again— No longer absence, but reaction. The kind of silence that waits with its breath caught.

Then, from somewhere above, his voice returned—quieter now. Thoughtful. As if he were no longer speaking to me, but to memory.

“So was the last.”

His words fell like stones into water— Each one disturbing something I hadn’t dared name.

I turned. Slowly.

No figure stepped forward. No breath stirred the dust. But I felt him—just beyond reach. Where stone curved into shadow and silence waited like a blade.

“They said she wept,” he murmured.

My pulse stuttered.

He laughed again—low. Indulgent.

“Not for herself.” “But for me.”

A rush of air swept through the chamber—though nothing had moved.

My veil lifted from my shoulder, drifted, then fell still.

“You knew her?” I asked.

“I know them all.”

His voice moved with the air— Behind me. Then to the left. Then gone.

“I remember the girl who carved her name into the cave mouth. The one who brought books. The one who laced her wine with poison.”

A pause.

“One tried to drown herself in the basin at the gate. It was dry, of course. Always is.”

I closed my eyes for a moment. When I opened them, nothing had changed.

He was circling me— Not in flesh, but in memory.

Drawing me in with every name he never returned.

“My aunt,” I said. “She came forty summers ago. I never knew her, but—”

“But you grieved her,” he finished. “As if grief alone gave you the right to vengeance.”

I went still.

“She taught you to hate me, didn’t she?” “A woman you never met. A body you never saw. Yet she’s the fire beneath your blade.”

His voice lowered, darkened.

“That’s the way of your kind—passing down fear like heirlooms.”

Something twisted inside me.

“And what did they offer in return?” he asked, voice quieter now, coiled. “Stories of dragons who once loved men? Or the tale of the final bride—the one destined to break the curse and save the world?”

I turned, sharper this time.

“Why do you mock them?”

“Because I remember what they’ve chosen to forget.”

This time, the stone didn’t echo him. It held the words. Let them settle in the dust.

I stepped forward—careful not to cross the scorched ring at the chamber’s heart.

“Then tell me.”

Silence stretched— Long enough to test my patience. Long enough to tempt retreat.

Then:

“You wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

A pause. Then a shift.

Not warmth. But something near it. The breath before a confession.

“I remember when cities rose on the backs of dragons. When our bones were towers, and our wings shaded kings. When they sang to the mountains instead of hollowing them out.”

A breath.

“Then they learned hunger.”

He let the word sink. Not bitter. Not shouted. Simply spoken.

As if it explained everything.

“I was the last to kneel,” he said—softer now. “The last to break. And so, they named me monster.”

I didn’t speak. I didn’t move.

But something inside me shifted. Slow. Unwelcome. An ache I hadn’t prepared for.

He felt it. I knew he did.

And so—he changed again. Slipped back into the voice I’d come to expect.

Smooth. Dangerous. Bright with teeth.

“So now you come,” he said. “Dagger sheathed in silk. Vengeance passed down like a bridal veil. Ready to finish what your fathers could not.”

My fingers tightened at my side.

“I wonder…” His voice floated down from above, curling through the air like smoke. “What will you do when you find I am not the villain?”

“I already know what you are,” I said. Quietly. But not weakly.

“Do you?”

A beat.

“Then strike.”

The air shifted— Subtle as breath. The chamber tilted beneath me— Or maybe it was only the blood rushing in my ears.

I drew the blade.

Metal sang as it left the sheath.

But still, I saw nothing.

“I’m waiting,” he said.

His voice dripped with patience. The kind that outlives fear. The kind that wears down centuries like waves on stone— until even terror becomes a joke whispered to shadows.

I stepped forward.

The stone beneath my boots groaned—like something ancient remembering pain. I couldn’t tell if it was the mountain… or the one buried within it. Perhaps they had long since become the same.

“I didn’t come to play your games,”

“But you did,” he replied, velvet-edged and cutting. “They all do, in the end. That’s what makes you so delightfully predictable.”

I scanned the walls. A flicker of flame? The shimmer of scale? A breath drawn in shadow?

Nothing.

“You think you’re different,” he continued, voice softening like a knife sheathed in silk.

“But you’re here. Blade drawn. Blood hot. And still... you hesitate.”

“I do not hesitate.”

My voice was sharp. My grip, tighter still.

A chuckle answered—low, knowing. Not cruel. But close.

“Oh, little dagger,”

The name wasn’t mocking.

It was worse. Intimate.

“You tremble not from fear, but from truth. You’ve already seen the fracture in their tale, haven’t you?”

I raised my chin. My heart thundered loud enough to betray me.

“You wear their hatred like armor,” he said. “But it isn’t yours. It was stitched for you—by hands too afraid to finish the story.”

My blade wavered.

“And still,” he murmured, “you think yourself chosen. As if the fire you carry burns brighter than those who came before.”

The air thickened. Shadows pulled close. Drawn by breath. By belief.

My lungs strained. But I held my ground.

I would not give him the satisfaction of retreat.

“I didn’t ask to be chosen,” I said. Voice low. Throat raw.

“But I did choose this.”

Stillness gathered— Like smoke around the words.

Listening. Measuring.

“I am the daughter of a daughter of a daughter,”

“I carry their silence. Their names. Their ash.”

“You’ve buried a hundred and nine beneath this mountain.” “You will not have a hundred and ten.”

I shifted the blade to my left hand. Lifted my right.

A tremor passed through me— Not fear. Finality. The moment before the plunge.

“I make this vow,” I said, steady now.

“If you are the monster they claim— I will end you.”

But if you are not—if you are something worse—I will break this curse with my own blood before another girl is led to slaughter.”

The chamber did not answer. Not even with breath.

Only stillness. Holding its breath. Waiting.

Then—a sound. Soft. Like oil catching flame.

Not rage. Not threat.

Amusement. Quiet. Dangerous.

He laughed.

“I’ve missed this,” he said. “A girl who bites.”

Above, something shifted.

A faint light spread through the chamber— red-gold and flickering, as though the stone itself remembered sunlight.

Along the far wall, a passage opened. Where none had been. Narrow. Black-veined. Carved by heat, pressure, and time.

His voice returned—low now, almost smiling.

“Come, little dagger. Let’s see how far your oath carries you.”

I didn’t reply.

The blade slid back into its sheath. My fingers throbbed from the grip I’d held too long.

One step.

Then another.

The corridor swallowed me whole.

Heat pulsed through the stone—slow and rhythmic. As if the mountain had begun to breathe again.

I wondered about the daughters who had walked these halls before me.

How many had trembled? How many had cried? How many had whispered their names into the dark, hoping someone— anyone—would remember?

The mountain had swallowed a hundred and nine.

I carried their weight

I may not have been the first to walk this path with fire in my blood—but I would be the last to burn.

to be continued...

INDEX : prologue ✧ one ✧ two ✧

♡ brides of the last dragon : @blessdunrest @otome-house @kestrelmando @cms399 @cutestnursingstudent @wakeupr41 @orcawholikeskrakans @crimsonlittlecrow @emowitchwithatwist @crowroses13 @typhloticassent @stxrrielle @crowskitten22 @ikesimpleton @old-spinach-quail

♡ Taglist is open. If you wish to walk with me through this ruin—if you wish to witness each fragment as it falls—simply reply or send an ask, and I’ll add you to the list.

[ cover template : miisuki on x ]

#lads x reader #sylus x reader

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